r-NRLF 


B    M    102 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND 


"  I  c-^n't  believe' that  the  castle  of  Ham  was  as  striking 
in  its  untouched  magnificence,  as  now,  in  the  rose-red 
splendour  of  its  ruin!" 


EVERYMAN'S 
LAND 


BY  C.  N.  &  A.  M.  WILLIAMSON 


AUTHOR  OF 

'The  Lightning  Conductor  Discovers  America" 

"Lady  Betty  Across  the  Water" 

"Set  in  Silver,"  Etc. 


Fsonticpiecu 


A.  L.  BURT  COMPANY 

Publishers  New  York 

Published  by  arrangement  with  Doubleday,  Page   &  Company 


COPYRIGHT,  1918,  BY 

C.  N.  &  A.  M.  WILLIAMSON 

ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED,  INCLUDING  THAT  OP 

TRANSLATION  INTO  FOREIGN  LANGUAGES, 

INCLUDING  THE  SCANDINAVIAN 


COPYRIGHT.  1918,  BY  THE  FRANK  A.  MUNSEY  COMPAN* 


TO  ALL  SOLDIERS  WHO  HAVE  FOUGHT 

OR  FIGHT  FOR  EVERYMAN'S  LAND  AND 

EVERYMAN'S  RIGHT;  AND  TO  THOSE 

WHO  LOVE  FRANCE 


912988 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND 


EVERYMAN'S   LAND 


CHAPTER  I 

PADRE,  when  you  died,  you  left  a  message  for  me. 
You  asked  me  to  go  on  writing,  if  I  were  in  trouble, 
just  as  I  used  to  write  when  you  were  on  earth.  I 
used  to  "confess, "  and  you  used  to  advise.  Also  you  used 
to  scold.  How  you  used  to  scold !  I  am  going  to  do  now 
what  you  asked,  in  that  message. 

I  shall  never  forget  how  you  packed  me  off  to  school  at 
Brighton,  and  Brian  to  Westward  Ho!  the  year  father 
died  and  left  us  to  you — the  most  troublesome  legacy  a 
poor  bachelor  parson  ever  had !  I'd  made  up  my  mind  to 
hate  England.  Brian  couldn't  hate  anything  or  anybody: 
dreamers  don't  know  how  to  hate:  and  I  wanted  to  hate 
you  for  sending  us  there.  I  wanted  to  be  hated  and  mis 
understood.  I  disguised  myself  as  a  Leprechaun  and 
sulked;  but  it  didn't  work  where  you  were  concerned. 
You  understood  me  as  no  one  else  ever  could — or  will,  I 
believe.  You  taught  me  something  about  life,  and  to  see 
that  people  are  much  the  same  all  over  the  world,  if  you 
"take  them  by  the  heart. " 

You  took  me  by  the  heart,  and  you  held  me  by  it,  from 
the  time  I  was  twelve  till  the  time  when  you  gave  your  life 
for  your  country.  Ten  years!  When  I  tell  them  over 

8 


4  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

now,  as  a  nun  tells  the  beadt<  of  her  rosary,  I  realize  what 
good  years  they  were,  and  how  their  goodness — with  such 
goodness  as  1  bad  in  me  to  face  them — came  through 
you. 

Even  after  you  died,  you  seemed  to  be  near,  with  en 
couragement  and  advice.  Remembering  how  pleased  you 
were,  when  I  decided  to  train  as  a  nurse,  added  later  to  the 
sense  of  your  nearness,  because  I  felt  you  would  rejoice 
when  I  was  able  to  be  of  real  use.  It  was  only  after  you 
went  that  my  work  began  to  count,  but  I  was  sure  you 
knew.  I  could  hear  your  voice  say,  "Good  girl!  Hurrah 
for  you ! "  when  I  got  the  gold  medal  for  nursing  the  conta 
gious  cases;  your  dear  old  Irish  voice,  as  it  used  to  say  the 
same  words  when  I  brought  you  my  school  prizes. 

Perhaps  I  was  "a  good  girl."  Anyhow,  I  was  a  good 
nurse.  Not  that  I  deserved  much  credit!  Brian  was 
fighting,  and  in  danger  day  and  night.  You  were  gone; 
and  I  was  glad  to  be  a  soldier  in  my  way,  with  never  a 
minute  to  think  of  myself.  Besides,  somehow  I  wasn't  one 
bit  afraid.  I  loved  the  work.  But,  Padre  mio,  I  am  not  a 
good  girl  now.  I'm  a  wicked  girl,  wickeder  than  you  or 
I  ever  dreamed  it  was  in  me  to  be,  at  my  worst.  Yet  if 
your  spirit  should  appear  as  I  write,  to  warn  me  that  I'm 
sinning  an  unpardonable  sin,  I  should  go  on  sinning  it. 

For  one  thing,  it's  for  Brian,  twin  brother  of  my  body, 
twin  brother  of  my  heart.  For  another  thing,  it's  too 
late  to  turn  back.  There's  a  door  that  has  slammed  shut 
behind  me. 

Now,  I'll  begin  and  tell  you  everything  exactly  as  it 
happened.  Many  a  "confession-letter"  I've  begun  iu 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  5 

just  these  words,  but  never  one  like  this.  I  don't  deserve 
that  it  should  bring  me  the  heartease  which  used  to  come. 
But  the  thought  of  you  is  my  star  in  darkness.  Brian  is 
the  last  person  to  whom  I  can  speak,  because  above  all 
things  I  want  him  to  be  happy.  On  earth  there  is  no  one 
else.  Beyond  the  earth  there  is — you. 

When  Brian  was  wounded,  they  expected  him  to  die,  and 
he  was  asking  for  me.  The  telegram  came  one  day  when 
we  had  all  been  rather  overworked  in  the  hospital,  and 
I  was  feeling  ready  to  drop.  I  must  only]  have  imagined 
my  tiredness  though,  for  when  I  heard  about  Brian  I 
grew  suddenly  strong  as  steel.  I  was  given  leave,  and 
disinfected,  and  purified  as  thoroughly  as  Esther  when 
she  was  being  made  worthy  of  Ahasuerus.  Then  I 
dashed  off  to  catch  the  first  train  going  north. 

St.  Raphael  was  our  railway  station,  but  I  hadn't  seen 
the  place  since  I  took  up  work  in  the  Hopital  des  Epide 
mics.  That  was  many  months  before;  and  meanwhile  a 
training-school  for  American  aviators  had  been  started  at 
St.  Raphael.  News  of  its  progress  had  drifted  to  our 
ears,  but  of  course  the  men  weren't  allowed  to  come  within 
a  mile  of  us:  we  were  too  contagious.  They  had  sent 
presents,  though — presents  of  money,  and  one  grand 
gift  had  burst  upon  us  from  a  young  millionaire  whose 
father's  name  is  known  everywhere.  He  sent  a  cheque 
for  a  sum  so  big  that  we  nurses  were  nearly  knocked  down 
by  the  size  of  it.  With  it  was  enclosed  a  request  that 
the  money  should  be  used  to  put  wire-nettings  in  all 
windows  and  doors,  and  to  build  a  roofed  loggia  for  con 
valescents.  If  there  were  anything  left  over,  we  might 
buy  deck-chairs  and  air-pillows.  Of  course  it  was  easy 


6  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

for  any  one  to  know  that  we  needed  all  these  things.  Our 
lack  was  notorious.  We  sent  a  much  disinfected,  carbolic- 
smelling  round  robin  of  thanks  to  "James  W.  Beckett, 
Junior,"  son  of  the  western  railway  king. 

As  I  drove  to  the  gare  of  St.  Raphael,  I  thought  of  the 
kind  boys  who  had  helped  our  poor  poilus,  and  especially 
of  James  Beckett.  Whether  he  were  still  at  the  aviation 
camp,  or  had  finished  his  training  and  gone  to  the  front,  I 
didn't  know:  but  I  wafted  a  blessing  to  our  benefactor.  I 
little  dreamed  then  of  the  unforgivable  injury  I  was  fated 
to  do  him!  You  see,  Padre,  I  use  the  word  "fated." 
That's  because  I've  turned  coward.  I  try  to  pretend  that 
fate  has  been  too  strong  for  me.  But  down  deep  I  know 
you  were  right  when  you  said,  "Our  characters  carve  our 
fate." 

It  was  a  long  journey  from  the  south  to  the  north,  where 
Brian  was,  for  in  war-days  trains  do  what  they  like 
and  what  nobody  else  likes.  I  travelled  for  three  days 
and  nights,  and  when  I  came  to  my  journey's  end,  instead 
of  Brian  being  dead  as  I'd  seen  him  in  a  hundred  hide 
ous  dreams,  the  doctors  held  out  hope  that  he  might 
live.  They  told  me  this  to  give  me  courage,  before 
they  broke  the  news  that  he  would  be  blind.  I  sup 
pose  they  thought  I'd  be  so  thankful  to  keep  my 
brother  at  any  price,  that  I  should  hardly  feel  the  shock. 
But  I  wasn't  thankful.  I  wasn't !  The  price  seemed  too 
big.  I  judged  Brian  by  myself — Brian,  who  so  worshipped 
beauty  that  I  used  to  call  him  "Phidias!"  I  was  sure 
he  would  rather  have  gone  out  of  this  world  whose  face 
he'd  loved,  than  stay  in  it  without  eyes  for  its  radiant 
smile.  But  there  I  made  a  great  mistake.  Brian  was 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  7 

magnificent.  Perhaps  you  would  have  known  what  to 
expect  of  him  better  than  I  knew. 

Where  you  are,  you  will  understand  why  he  did  not 
despair.  I  couldn't  understand  then,  and  I  scarcely  can 
now,  though  living  with  my  blind  Brian  is  teaching  me 
lessons  I  feel  unworthy  to  learn.  It  was  he  who  com 
forted  me,  not  I  him.  He  said  that  all  the  beauty  of 
earth  was  his  already,  and  nothing  could  take  it  away. 
He  wouldn't  let  it  be  taken  away!  He  said  that  sight 
was  first  given  to  all  created  creatures  in  the  form  of  a 
desire  to  see,  desire  so  intense  that  with  the  developing 
faculty  of  sight,  animals  developed  eyes  for  its  concen 
tration.  He  reminded  me  how  in  dreams,  and  even  in 
thoughts — if  they're  vivid  enough — we  see  as  distinctly 
with  our  brains  as  with  our  eyes.  He  said  he  meant  to 
make  a  wonderful  world  for  himself  with  this  vision  of 
the  brain  and  soul.  He  intended  to  develop  the  power,  so 
that  he  would  gain  more  than  he  had  lost,  and  I  must  help 
him. 

Of  course  I  promised  to  help  all  I  could;  but  there  was 
death  in  my  heart.  I  remembered  our  gorgeous  holiday 
together  before  the  war,  tramping  through  France,  Brian 
painting  those  lovely  "impressions"  of  his,  which  made 
him  money  and  something  like  fame.  And  oh,  I  remem 
bered  not  only  that  such  happy  holidays  were  over,  but 
that  soon  there  would  be  no  more  money  for  our  bare 
living ! 

We  were  always  so  poor,  that  church  mice  were  pluto 
crats  compared  to  us.  At  least  they  need  pay  no  rent,  and 
have  to  buy  no  clothes !  I'm  sure,  if  the  truth  were  known, 
the  money  Father  left  for  our  education  and  bringing  up 


8  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

was  gone  before  we  began  to  support  ourselves,  though  you 
never  let  us  guess  we  were  living  on  you.  As  I  sat  and 
listened  to  Brian  talk  of  our  future,  my  very  bones  seemed 
to  melt.  The  only  thing  I've  been  trained  to  do  well  is  to 
nurse.  I  wasn't  a  bad  nurse  when  the  war  began.  I'm  an 
excellent  nurse  now.  But  it's  Brian's  nurse  I  must  be. 
I  saw  that,  in  the  first  hour  after  the  news  was  broken,  and 
our  two  lives  broken  with  it.  I  saw  that,  with  me  unable 
to  earn  a  penny,  and  Brian's  occupation  gone  with  his 
sight,  we  were  about  as  helpless  as  a  pair  of  sparrows  with 
their  wings  clipped. 

If  Brian  in  his  secret  soul  had  any  such  thoughts,  per 
haps  he  had  faith  to  believe  that  not  a  sparrow  can  fall, 
unless  its  fall  is  appointed  by  God.  Anyhow,  he  said  never 
a  word  about  ways  and  means,  except  to  mention  cheer 
fully  that  he  had  "heaps  of  pay  saved  up,"  nearly  thirty 
pounds.  Of  course  I  answered  that  I  was  rich,  too.  But 
I  didn't  go  into  details.  I  was  afraid  even  Brian's  optim 
ism  might  be  dashed  if  I  did.  Padre,  my  worldly  wealth 
consisted  of  five  French  bank  notes  of  a  hundred  francs 
each,  and  a  few  horrible  little  extra  scraps  of  war-paper 
and  copper. 

The  hospital  where  Brian  lay  was  near  the  front,  in  the 
remains  of  a  town  the  British  had  won  back  from  the 
Germans.  I  called  the  place  Crucifix  Corner:  but  God 
knows  we  are  all  at  Crucifix  Corner  now!  I  lodged  in  a 
hotel  that  had  been  half  knocked  down  by  a  bomb,  and 
patched  up  for  occupation.  As  soon  as  Brian  was  able  to 
be  moved,  the  doctor  wanted  him  to  go  to  Paris  to  an 
American  brain  specialist  who  had  lately  come  over  and 
made  astonishing  cures.  Brian's  blindness  was  due  to 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  9 

paralysis  of  the  optic  nerve;  but  this  American — Cuyler — 
had  performed  spine  and  brain  operations  which  had 
restored  sight  in  two  similar  cases.  There  might  be  a 
hundredth  chance  for  my  brother. 

Of  course  I  said  it  would  be  possible  to  take  Brian 
to  Paris.  I'd  have  made  it  possible  if  I'd  had  to  sell  my 
hair  to  do  it;  and  you  know  my  curly  black  mop  of  hair 
was  always  my  pet  vanity.  Brian  being  a  soldier,  he 
could  have  the  operation  free,  if  Doctor  Cuyler  considered 
it  wise  to  operate;  but — as  our  man  warned  me — there 
were  ninety-nine  chances  to  one  against  success :  and  at  all 
events  there  would  be  a  lot  of  expenses  in  the  immediate 
future. 

I  sent  in  my  resignation  to  the  dear  Hopital  des  Epi 
demics,  explaining  my  reasons:  and  presently  Brian  and 
I  set  out  for  Paris  by  easy  stages.  The  cap  was  put  on 
the  climax  for  me  by  remembering  how  he  and  I  had 
walked  over  that  very  ground  three  years  before,  in  the 
sunshine  of  life  and  summer.  Brian  too  thought  of  the 
past,  but  not  in  bitterness.  I  hid  my  anguish  from  him, 
but  it  gnawed  the  heart  of  me  with  the  teeth  of  a  rat.  I 
couldn't  see  what  Brian  had  ever  done  to  deserve  such  a 
fate  as  his,  and  I  began  to  feel  wicked,  wicked.  It  seemed 
that  destiny  had  built  up  a  high  prison  wall  in  front  of  my 
brother  and  me,  and  I  had  a  wild  impulse  to  kick  and  claw 
at  it,  though  I  knew  I  couldn't  pull  it  down. 

When  we  arrived  in  Paris,  Doctor  Cuyler  saw  us  at 
once;  but  his  opinion  added  another  pile  of  flinty  black 
blocks  to  the  prison  wall.  He  thought  that  there  would 
be  no  hope  from  an  operation.  If  there  were  any  hope  at 
all  (he  couldn't  say  there  was)  it  lay  in  waiting,  resting, 


10  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

and  building  up  Brian's  shattered  health.  After  months 
of  perfect  peace,  it  was  just  on  the  cards  that  sight  might 
come  back  of  itself,  suddenly  and  unexpectedly,  in  a 
moment.  We  were  advised  to  live  in  the  country,  and 
Doctor  Cuyler  suggested  that  it  would  be  well  for  my 
brother  to  have  surroundings  with  agreeable  occupation 
for  the  mind.  If  he  were  a  musician  he  must  have  a 
piano.  There  ought  to  be  a  garden  for  him  to  walk  in 
and  even  work  in.  Motoring,  with  the  slight  vibration 
of  a  good  car,  would  be  particularly  beneficial  a  little  later 
on.  I  suppose  we  must  have  looked  to  Doctor  Cuyler 
like  millionaires,  for  he  didn't  appear  to  dream  that 
there  could  be  the  slightest  difficulty  in  carrying  out  his 
programme. 

I  sat  listening  with  the  calm  mien  of  one  to  whom  money 
comes  as  air  comes  to  the  lungs;  but  behind  my  face  the 
wildest  thoughts  were  raging.  You've  sometimes  seen  a 
row  of  tall  motionless  pines,  the  calmest,  stateliest  things 
on  earth,  screening  with  their  branches  the  mad  white 
rush  of  a  cataract.  My  brain  felt  like  such  a  screened 
cataract. 

Except  for  his  blindness,  by  this  time  Brian  was  too 
well  for  a  hospital.  We  were  at  the  small,  cheap  hotel  on 
"  la  rive  gauche"  where  we'd  stayed  and  been  happy  three 
years  ago,  before  starting  on  our  holiday  trip.  When 
we  came  back  after  the  interview  with  Doctor  Cuyler, 
Brian  was  looking  done  up,  and  I  persuaded  him  to  lie 
down  and  rest.  No  one  else  could  have  slept,  after  so 
heavy  a  blow  of  disappointment,  without  a  drug,  but 
Brian  is  a  law  unto  himself.  He  said  if  I  would  sit  by 
him  and  read,  he'd  feel  at  peace,  and  would  drop  off  into  a. 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  11 

doze.  *  It  was  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  and  I  hadn't 
glanced  yet  at  the  newspaper  we  had  bought  in  the 
morning.  I  took  it  up,  to  please  Brian  with  the  rustling 
of  the  pages,  not  expecting  to  concentrate  upon  a  line 
but  instantly  my  eyes  were  caught  by  a  name  I  knew. 

"Tragic  Romance  of  Millionaire's  Family,"  I  read. 
"James  W.  Beckett  brings  his  wife  to  France  and  Reads 
Newspaper  Notice  of  Only  Son's  Death." 

This  was  the  double-line,  big-lettered  heading  of  a  half 
column  on  the  front  page;  and  it  brought  to  my  mind  a 
picture.  I  saw  a  group  of  nurses  gazing  over  each  other's 
shoulders  at  a  blue  cheque.  It  was  a  cheque  for  six 
thousand  francs,  signed  in  a  clear,  strong  hand,  "James 
W.  Beckett,  Junior." 

So  he  was  dead,  that  generous  boy,  to  whom  our  hearts 
had  gone  out  in  gratitude !  It  could  not  be  very  long  since 
he  had  finished  his  training  at  St.  Raphael  and  begun 
work  at  the  front.  What  a  waste  of  splendid  material  it 
seemed,  that  he  should  have  been  swept  away  so  soon ! 

I  read  on,  and  from  my  own  misery  I  had  an  extra  pang 
to  spare  for  James  Beckett,  Senior,  and  his  wif e^ 

Someone  had  contrived  to  tear  a  fragmentary  interview 
from  the  "bereaved  railway  magnate,"  as  he  was  called  in 
the  potted  phrase  of  the  journalist.  Apparently  the  poor, 
trapped  man  had  been  too  soft-hearted  or  too  dazed  with 
grief  to  put  up  a  forceful  resistance,  and  the  reporter  had 
been  quick  to  seize  his  advantage. 

He  had  learned  that  Mr.  and  Mrs.  James  W.  Beckett, 
Senior,  had  nearly  died  of  homesickness  for  their  son. 
They  had  thought  of  "running  across  to  surprise  Jimmy." 
And  then  a  letter  had  come  from  him  saying  that  in  a  fort- 


12  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

night  his  training  would  be  over.  He  was  to  be  granted 
eight  days'  leave,  which  he  didn't  particularly  want, 
since  he  couldn't  spend  it  with  them;  and  immediately 
after  he  would  go  to  the  front. 

"We  made  up  our  minds  that  Jimmy  should  spend  that 
leave  of  his  with  us,"  the  old  man  had  said.  "We  got 
our  papers  in  a  hurry  and  engaged  cabins  on  the  first 
boat  that  was  sailing.  Unluckily  there  wasn't  one  for 
nearly  a  week,  but  we  did  the  best  we  could.  When  every- 
thing  was  fixed  up,  I  wired  Jimmy  to  meet  us  at  the  Ritz,  in 
Paris.  We  had  a  little  breeze  with  a  U-boat,  and  we  ran 
into  some  bad  weather  which  made  my  wife  pretty  sick, 
but  nothing  mattered  to  us  except  the  delay,  we  were  so 
crazy  to  see  the  boy.  At  Bordeaux  a  letter  from  him  was 
waiting.  It  told  how  he  was  just  as  crazy  to  see  us,  but 
we'd  only  have  twenty-four  hours  together,  as  his  leave 
and  orders  for  the  front  had  both  been  advanced.  The 
delay  at  sea  had  cost  a  day,  and  that  seemed  like  hard 
lines,  as  we  should  reach  Paris  with  no  more  than  time  to 
wish  the  lad  God-speed.  But  in  the  train,  when  we  came 
to  look  at  the  date,  we  saw  that  we'd  miscalculated. 
Unless  Jimmy'd  been  able  to  get  extra  leave  we'd  miss 
him  altogether.  His  mother  said  that  would  be  too  bad 
to  be  true.  We  hoped  and  prayed  to  find  him  at  the  Ritz. 
Instead,  we  found  news  that  he  had  fallen  in  his  first 
battle." 

The  interviewer  went  on,  upon  his  own  account,  to 

-  praise  "Jimmy"  Beckett.    He  described  him  as  a  young 

man  of  twenty-seven,  "of  singularly  engaging  manner 

and  handsome  appearance;  a  graduate  with  high  honours 

from  Harvard,  an  all-round  sportsman  and  popular  with  a 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  13 

large  circle  of  friends,  but  fortunately  leaving  neither  a  wife 
nor  a  fiancee  behind  him  in  America."  The  newly  qualified 
aviator  had,  indeed,  fallen  in  his  first  battle :  but  according 
to  the  writer  it  had  been  a  battle  of  astonishing  glory  for  a 
beginner.  Single-handed  he  had  engaged  four  enemy 
machines,  manoeuvring  his  own  little  Nieuport  in  a  way 
to  excite  the  highest  admiration  and  even  surprise  in  all 
spectators.  Two  out  of  the  four  German  'planes  he  had 
brought  down  over  the  French  lines;  and  was  in  chase  of 
the  third,  flying  low  above  the  German  trenches,  when  two 
new  Fokkers  appeared  on  the  scene  and  attacked  him. 
His  plane  crashed  to  earth  in  flames,  and  a  short  time  after, 
prisoners  had  brought  news  of  his  death. 

"Mr.  and  Mrs.  James  W.  Beckett  will  have  the  sym 
pathy  of  all  Europe  as  well  as  their  native  land,  in  these 
tragic  circumstances,"  the  journalist  ended  his  story  with  a 
final  flourish.  "If  such  grief  could  be  assuaged,  pride  in 
the  gallant  death  of  their  gallant  son  might  be  a  panacea." 

"As  if  you  could  make  pride  into  a  balm  for  broken 
hearts!"  I  said  to  myself  in  scorn  of  this  flowery 
eloquence.  For  a  few  minutes  I  forgot  my  own  plight 
to  pity  these  people  whom  I  had  never  seen.  The  Paris 
Daily  Messenger  slid  off  my  lap  on  to  the  floor,  and  dropped 
with  the  back  page  up.  When  I  had  glanced  toward  the 
bed,  and  seen  that  Brian  still  slept,  my  eyes  fell  on  the 
paper  again.  The  top  part  of  the  last  page  is  always 
devoted  to  military  snapshots,  and  a  face  smiled  up  at 
me  from  it — a  face  I  had  seen  once  and  never  forgotten. 

My  heart  gave  a  jump,  Padre,  because  the  one  tiny, 
abbreviated  dream-romance  of  my  life  came  from  the 
original  of  that  photograph.  Although  the  man  I  knew 


14  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

(if  people  can  know  each  other  in  a  day's  acquaintance) 
had  been  en  civile,  and  this  one  was  in  aviator's  uniform, 
I  was  sure  they  were  the  same.  And  even  before  I'd 
snatched  up  the  paper  to  read  what  was  printed  under  the 
picture,  something — the  wonderful  inner  Something 
that's  never  wrong — told  me  I  was  looking  at  a  portrait  of 
Jimmy  Beckett. 


CHAPTER  n 

I   NEVER  mentioned  my  one-day  romance  to  anybody. 
Only  very  silly,  sentimental  girls  would  put  such  an 
episode  into  words,  and  flatter  themselves  by  calling 
it  a  romance.     But  now  that  you  and  Jimmy  Beckett 
have  both  given  your  lives  for  the  great  cause,  and  are  in 
the  same  mysterious  Beyond  while  I'm  still  down  here  at 
Crucifix  Corner,  I  can  tell  you  the  story.     If  you  and  he 
meet,  it  may  make  it  easier  for  him  to  forgive  me  the  thing 
I  have  done. 

When  Brian  and  I  were  having  that  great  summer  holi 
day  of  ours,  the  year  before  the  war — one  day  we  were  in  a 
delicious  village  near  a  cathedral  town  on  the  Belgian 
border.  A  piece  of  luck  had  fallen  in  our  way,  like  a 
ripe  apple  tumbling  off  a  tree.  A  rich  Parisian  and  his 
wife  came  motoring  along,  and  stopped  out  of  sheer  curi 
osity  to  look  at  a  picture  Brian  was  painting,  under  a 
white  umbrella  near  the  roadside.  I  was  not  with  him.  I 
think  I  must  have  been  in  the  garden  of  our  quaint  old 
hotel  by  the  canal  side,  writing  letters — probably  one 
to  you;  but  the  couple  took  such  a  fancy  to  Brian's  "im 
pression,"  that  they  offered  to  buy  it.  The  bargain  was 
struck,  there  and  then.  Two  days  later  arrived  a  tele 
gram  from  Paris  asking  for  another  picture  to  "match"  the 
first  at  the  same  price.  I  advised  Brian  to  choose  out 
two  or  three  sketches  for  the  people  to  select  from,  and 

15 


16  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

carry  them  to  Paris  himself,  rather  than  trust  the  post. 
He  went;  and  it  was  on  the  one  day  of  his  absence  that 
my  romance  happened. 

Ours  was  a  friendly  little  hotel,  with  a  darling  landlady, 
who  was  almost  as  much  interested  in  Brian  and  me  as  if 
she'd  been  our  foster-mother.  The  morning  after  Brian 
left,  she  came  waddling  out  to  the  adorable,  earwiggy,  rose- 
covered  summer-house  that  I'd  annexed  as  a  private  sitting 
room.  "Mademoiselle,"  she  breathlessly  announced, 
"there  is  a  young  millionaire  of  a  monsieur  Anglais  or 
Americain  just  arrived.  What  a  pity  he  should  be  wasted 
because  Monsieur  your  brother  has  gone !  I  am  sure  if  he 
could  but  see  one  of  the  exquisite  pictures  he  would  wish 
to  buy  all!" 

"How  do  you  know  that  the  monsieur  is  a  millionaire, 
and  what  makes  you  think  he  would  care  about  pictures?" 
I  enquired. 

"I  know  he  is  a  millionaire  because  he  has  come  in  one 
of  those  grand  automobiles  which  only  millionaires  ever 
have.  And  I  think  he  cares  for  pictures  because  the 
first  thing  he  did  when  he  came  into  the  hall  was  to  stare 
at  the  old  prints  on  the  wall.  He  praised  the  two  best 
which  the  real  artists  always  praise,  and  complimented 
me  on  owning  them"  the  dear  creature  explained.  "Be 
sides,  he  is  in  this  neighbourhood  expressly  to  see  the 
cathedral;  and  monsieur  your  brother  has  made  a  most 
beautiful  sketch  of  the  cathedral.  It  is  now  in  his  port 
folio.  Is  there  nothing  we  can  do?  I  have  already 
induced  the  monsieur  to  drink  a  glass  of  milk  while  I  have 
come  to  consult  Mademoiselle." 

I  thought  hard  for  a  minute,  because  it  would  be  grand 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  17 

if  I  could  say  when  Brian  came  back,  "I  have  sold  your 
cathedral  for  you."  But  I  might  have  saved  myself 
brain  fag.  Madame  Mounet  had  settled  everything 
in  her  head,  and  was  merely  playing  me,  like  a  foolish 
fish. 

"What  I  have  thought  of  is  this,"  she  said.  "I  told 
the  monsieur  that  he  could  see  something  better  than  my 
prints  if  he  would  give  himself  the  pain  of  waiting  till  I 
could  fetch  the  key  of  a  room  where  an  artist-client  of  ours 
has  a  marvellous  exhibition.  There  is  no  such  room  yet, 
but  there  can  be,  and  the  exhibition  can  be,  too,  if  Ma 
demoiselle  will  make  haste  to  pin  her  brother's  pictures 
to  the  walls  of  the  yellow  salon.  With  a  hammer  and 
a  few  tacks — voila  the  thing  is  done.  What  does  Ma 
demoiselle  say  ?" 

Mademoiselle  said  "Yes — yes!"  to  her  part  of  the  pro 
gramme.  But  what  of  the  millionaire  monsieur?  Would 
he  not  balk  ?  Would  he  not  refuse  to  be  bothered  ? 

Madame  was  absolutely  confident  that  he  would  not  do 
these  disappointing  things.  She  was  so  confident  that  I 
vaguely  suspected  she  had  something  up  her  sleeve:  but 
time  pressed,  and  instead  of  Sherlock  Holmesing  I  darted 
to  my  work.  Afterward  she  confessed,  with  pride  rather 
than  repentance.  She  described  graphically  how  the 
face  of  the  monsieur  had  fallen  when  she  asked  him  to 
look  at  an  exhibition  of  pictures;  how  he  had  begun  to 
make  an  excuse  that  he  must  be  off  at  once  to  the  cathe 
dral;  and  how  she  had  ventured  to  cut  him  short  by  re 
marking,  "Mademoiselle  the  sister  of  the  artist,  she  who 
will  show  the  work,  ah,  it  is  a  jeune  fille  of  the  most  ro 
mantic  beauty!"  On  hearing  this,  the  monsieur  had  said 


18  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

no  more  about  the  cathedral,  but  had  ordered  the  glass 
of  milk. 

In  fifteen  minutes  the  exhibition  (consisting  of  six 
sketches!)  was  ready  in  the  showroom  of  the  hotel,  the 
yellow  salon  which  had  been  occupied  as  a  bedchamber  one 
night  by  the  Empress  Eugenie,  and  was  always  kept  locked 
except  on  gala  occasions.  I,  not  knowing  how  I  had  been 
over-praised  to  the  audience,  was  also  ready,  quivering 
with  the  haste  I  had  made  in  pinning  up  the  pictures  and 
opening  the  musty,  close  room  to  the  air.  Then  came  in 
a  young  man. 

As  I  write,  Padre,  I  am  back  again  in  that  salon  jaune, 
and  he  is  walking  in  at  the  door,  pausing  a  second  on  the 
threshold  at  sight  of  me.  I  will  give  you  the  little  play  in 
one  act.  We  smile.  The  hero  of  the  comedy-drama  has  a 
rather  big  mouth,  and  such  white  teeth  that  his  smile,  in 
his  brown  face,  is  a  lightning-flash  at  dusk.  It  is  a  thin 
face  with  two  dimples  that  make  lines  when  he  laughs. 
His  eyes  are  gray  and  long,  with  the  eagle-look  that  knows 
far  spaces;  deep-set  eyes  under  straight  black  brows, 
drawn  low.  His  lashes  are  black,  too,  but  his  short 
crinkly  hair  is  brown.  He  has  a  good  square  forehead,  and 
a  high  nose  like  an  Indian's.  He  is  tall,  and  has  one  of 
those  lean,  lanky  loose- jointed  figures  that  crack  tennis- 
players  and  polo  men  have.  I  like  him  at  once,  and  I  think 
he  likes  me,  for  his  eyes  light  up;  and  just  for  an  instant 
there's  a  feeling  as  if  we  looked  through  clear  windows 
into  each  other's  souls.  It  is  almost  frightening,  that 
effect! 

I  begin  to  talk,  to  shake  off  an  odd  embarrassment. 

"Madame  Mounet  tells  me  you  want  to  see  my  brother's 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  19 

pictures,"  I  say.  "Here  are  a  few  sketches.  He  has 
taken  all  the  rest  worth  looking  at  to  Paris." 

"It's  good  of  you  to  let  me  come  in,"  the  hero  of  the 
play  answers.  Instantly  I  know  he's  not  English.  He 
has  one  of  those  nice  American  voices,  with  a  slight 
drawl,  that  somehow  sound  extraordinarily  frank.  I 
don't  speculate  about  his  name.  I  don't  stop  to  wonder 
who  he  is.  I  think  only  of  what  he  is.  I  forget  that 
Madame  has  exploited  him  as  a  millionaire.  I  don't  care 
whether  or  not  he  buys  a  picture.  I  want  nothing,  ex 
cept  the  pleasure  of  talking  with  him,  and  seeing  how  he 
looks  at  me. 

I  mumble  some  polite  nonsense  in  return  for  his.  He 
gazes  at  Brian's  water-colours  and  admires  them.  Then 
he  turns  from  the  pictures  to  me.  We  discuss  the  sketches 
and  the  scenes  they  represent.  "Oh,  have  you  been 
there ?  "  "Why,  I  was  at  that  place  a  week  ago ! "  " How 
odd!"  "WTe  must  have  missed  each  other  by  a  day." 
And  we  drift  into  gossip  about  ourselves.  Still  we  don't 
come  to  the  subject  of  names.  Names  seem  to  be  of 
no  importance.  They  belong  to  the  world  of  conven 
tions. 

We  talk  and  talk — mostly  of  France,  and  our  travels, 
and  pictures  and  books  we  love;  but  our  eyes  speak  of 
other  things.  I  feel  that  his  are  saying,  "You  are  beau 
tiful!"  Mine  answer,  "I'm  glad  you  think  that.  Why 
do  you  seem  so  different  to  me  from  other  people?  "  Then 
suddenly,  there's  a  look  too  long  between  us.  "I  wish  my 
brother  were  here  to  explain  his  pictures!"  I  cry;  though 
I  don't  wish  it  at  all.  It  is  only  that  I  must  break  the 
silence. 


20  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

This  brings  us  back  to  the  business  in  hand.  He  says, 
"May  I  really  buy  one  of  these  sketches  ?  " 

"Are  you  sure  you  want  to?  "  I  laugh. 

"Sure!"  he  answers.  And  I  never  heard  that  word 
sound  so  nice,  even  in  my  own  dear  Ireland. 

He  chooses  the  cathedral — which  he  hasn't  visited  yet. 
Do  I  know  the  price  my  brother  has  decided  on?  With 
that  question  I  discover  that  he  has  Madame  Mounet's 
version  of  our  name.  Brian  and  I  have  laughed  dozens  of 
laughs  at  her  way  of  pronouncing  O'Malley.  "Ommalee" 
we  are  for  her,  and  "Mees  Ommalee"  she  has  made  me  for 
her  millionaire.  For  fun,  I  don't  correct  him.  Let  him 
find  out  for  himself  who  we  really  are!  I  say  that  my 
brother  hasn't  fixed  a  price;  but  would  six  hundred  franc* 
seem  very  high?  The  man  considers  it  ridiculously  low. 
He  refuses  to  pay  less  than  twice  that  sum.  Even  so,  he 
argues  he  will  be  cheating  us,  and  getting  me  into  hot 
water  when  my  brother  comes.  We  almost  quarrel,  and 
at  last  the  hero  has  his  way.  He  strikes  me  as  one  who 
is  used  to  that! 

When  the  matter  is  settled,  an  odd  look  passes  over  his 
face.  I  wonder  if  he  has  changed  his  mind,  and  doesn't 
know  how  to  tell  me  his  trouble.  Something  is  worrying 
him;  that  is  clear.  Just  as  I'm  ready  to  make  things 
easy,  with  a  question,  he  laughs. 

"I'm  going  to  take  you  into  my  confidence,"  he  says, 
"and  tell  you  a  story — about  myself.  In  Paris,  before  I 
started  on  this  tour,  a  friend  of  mine  gave  a  man's  dinner 
for  me.  He  and  the  other  chaps  were  chaffing  because — 
oh,  because  of  a  silly  argument  we  got  into  about — life  in 
general,  and  mine  in  particular.  On  the  strength  of  it 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  21 

my  chum  bet  me  a  thing  he  knew  I  wanted,  that  I  couldn't 
go  through  my  trip  under  an  assumed  name.  I  bet  I 
could,  and  would.  I  bet  a  thing  I  want  to  keep.  That's 
the  silly  situation.  I  hate  not  telling  you  my  real 
name,  and  signing  a  cheque  for  your  brother.  But  I've 
stuck  it  out  for  four  weeks,  and  the  bet  has  only  two  more 
to  run.  I'm  calling  myself  Jim  Wyndham.  It's  only  my 
surname  I've  dropped  for  the  bet.  The  rest  is  mine. 
May  I  pay  for  the  picture  in  cash — and  may  I  come  back 
here,  or  wherever  you  are  on  the  fifteenth  day  from  now, 
and  introduce  myself  properly?  Or — you've  only  to 
speak  the  word,  and  I'll  throw  over  the  whole  footling 
business  this  minute,  and '" 

I  cut  in,  to  say  that  I  wont  speak  the  word,  and  he 
mustn't  throw  the  business  over.  It  is  quite  amusing  I 
tell  him,  and  I  hope  he'll  win  his  bet.  As  for  the  picture 
— he  may  pay  as  he  chooses.  But  about  the  proper 
introduction — Heaven  knows  where  I  shall  be  in  a 
fortnight.  My  brother  loves  to  make  up  his  mind  the 
night  beforehand,  where  to  go  next.  We  are  a  pair  of 
tramps. 

"  You  don't  do  your  tramping  on  foot?  " 

"Indeed  we  do!  We  haven't  seen  a  railway  station 
since  our  first  day  out  from  Paris.  We  stop  one  day  in  a 
place  we  don't  care  for:  three  in  a  place  we  like:  a  week  or 
more  in  a  place  we  love" 

"Then  at  that  rate  you  won't  have  got  far  in  fifteen 
days.  I  know  the  direction  you've  come  from  by  what 
you've  told  me,  and  your  brother's  sketches.  You 
wouldn't  be  here  on  the  border  of  Belgium  if  you  didn't 
mean  to  cross  the  frontier." 


22  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

"Oh,  we  shall  cross  it,  of  course.  But  where  we  shall  go 
when  we  get  across  is  another  question." 

"I'll  find  the  answer,  and  I'll  find  you,"  he  flings  at  me 
with  a  smile  of  defiance. 

"Why  should  you  give  yourself  trouble?  " 

"To — see  some  more  of  your  brother's  pictures,"  he 
says  gravely.  I  know  that  he  wishes  to  see  me,  not  the 
pictures,  and  he  knows  that  I  know;  but  I  let  it  go  at  that. 

When  the  sketch  has  been  wrapped  up  between  card 
boards,  and  the  twelve  hundred  francs  placed  carelessly 
on  a  table,  there  seems  no  reason  why  Mr.  Jim  Wyndham 
shouldn't  start  for  the  cathedral.  But  he  suddenly  de 
cides  that  the  way  of  wisdom  is  to  eat  first,  and  begs  me 
to  lunch  with  him.  "Do,  please"  he  begs,  "just  to  show 
you're  not  offended  with  my  false  pretences." 

I  yearn  to  say  yes,  and  don't  see  why  I  shouldn't;  so  I 
do.  We  have  dejeuner  together  in  the  summer-house 
where  Brian  and  I  always  eat.  We  chat  about  a  million 
things.  We  linger  over  our  coffee,  and  I  smoke  two  or 
three  of  his  gold-tipped  Egyptians.  When  we  suppose 
an  hour  has  gone  by,  at  most,  behold,  it  is  half -past  four! 
I  tell  him  he  must  start :  he  will  be  too  late  for  the  cathedral 
at  its  best.  He  says,  "Hang  the  cathedral ! "  and  refuses  to 
stir  unless  I  promise  to  dine  with  him  when  he  comes  back. 

"You  mean  in  a  fortnight?"  I  ask.  "Probably  we 
shan't  be  here." 

"I  mean  this  evening." 

"But — you're  not  coming  back!  You're  going  another 
way.  You  told  me " 

"Ah,  that  was  before  we  were  friends.  Of  course  I'm 
coming  back.  I'd  like  to  stay  to-morrow,  and " 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  23 

"You  certainly  must  not!  I  won't  dine  with  you  to 
night  if  you  do." 

"Will  you  if  I  don't?" 

"Perhaps." 

"Then  I'll  order  the  dinner  before  I  start  for  the  cathe 
dral.  I  want  it  to  be  a  perfect  one." 

"But — I've  said  only  perhaps." 

"Don't  you  want  to  pour  a  little  honest  gold  into  poor 
old  Madame  Mounet's  pocket?  " 
*  "Ye-es." 

"  If  so,  you  mustn't  chase  away  her  customers." 

"  For  her  sake,  the  dinner  is  a  bargain ! " 

"  Not  the  least  bit  for  my  sake?  " 

,     "Oh,  but  yes!     I've  enjoyed  our  talk.     And  you've 
been  so  nice  about  my  brother's  pictures." 

So  it  is  settled.  I  put  on  my  prettiest  dress,  white  mus 
lin;  with  some  fresh  red  roses  Madame  Mounet  brings 
me;  and  the  dinner-table  in  the  summer-house  is  a  picture, 
with  pink  Chinese  lanterns,  pink-shaded  candles,  and 
pink  geraniums.  Madame  won't  decorate  with  roses 
because  she  explains,  roses  anywhere  except  on  my 
toilette,"  spoil  the  unique  effect  of  Mademoiselle." 

The  little  inn  on  the  canal-side  buzzes  with  excitement. 
Not  within  the  memory  of  man  or  woman  has  there  been 
so  important  a  client  as  Mr.  Jim  Wyndham.  Most 
motoring  millionaires  dash  by  in  a  cloud  of  dust  to  the 
cathedral  town,  where  a  smart  modern  hotel  has  been 
run  up  to  cater  for  tourists.  This  magnificent  Monsieur 
Americain  engages  the  "suite  of  the  Empress  Eugenie," 
as  it  grandly  advertises  itself,  for  his  own  use  and  that  of 
his  chauffeur,  merely  to  bathe  in,  and  rest  in,  though  they 


'24  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

are  not  to  stay  the  night.  And  the  dinner  ordered  will 
enable  Madame  to  show  what  she  can  do,  a  chance  she 
rarely  gets  from  cheeseparing  customers,  like  Brian  and 
me,  and  others  of  our  ilk. 

I  am  determined  not  to  betray  my  childish  eagerness  by 
being  first  at  the  rendezvous.  I  keep  to  my  hot  room, 
until  I  spy  a  tall  young  figure  of  a  man  in  evening  dress 
striding  toward  the  arbour.  To  see  this  sight,  I  have  to 
be  at  my  window;  but  I  hide  behind  a  white  curtain  and  a 
screen  of  wistaria  and  roses.  I  count  sixty  before  I  go 
down.  I  walk  slowly.  I  stop  and  examine  flowers  in  the 
garden.  I  could  catch  a  wonderful  gold  butterfly,  but  per 
haps  it  is  as  happy  as  I  am.  I  wouldn't  take  its  life  for 
anything  on  earth !  t  As  I  watch  it  flutter  away,  my  host 
comes  out  of  the  arbour  to  meet  me. 

We  pass  two  exquisite  hours  in  each  other's  company. 
I  recall  each  subject  on  which  we  touch  and  even  the  words 
we  speak,  as  if  all  were  written  in  a  journal.  The  air  is  so 
clear  and  still  that  we  can  hear  the  famous  chimes  of  the 
cathedral  clock,  far  away,  in  the  town  that  is  a  bank  of 
blue  haze  on  the  horizon.  At  half -past  nine  I  begin  to 
tell  my  host  that  he  must  go,  but  he  does  not  obey  till 
after  ten.  Then  at  last  he  takes  my  hand  for  good-bye — no, 
au  revoir:  he  will  not  say  good-bye!  "In  two  weeks," 
he  repeats,  "we  shall  meet  again.  I  shall  have  won  my 
bet,  and  I  shall  bring  you  the  thing  I  win." 

"  I  won't  take  it !"  I  laugh. 

"Wait  till  you  see  it,  before  you  make  sure." 

"I'm  not  even  sure  yet  of  seeing  you,"  I  remind 
him. 

"You  may  be  sure  if  I'm  alive.     I  shall  scour  the  coun- 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  25 

try  for  miles  around  to  find  you.  I  shall  succeed — unless 
I'm  dead." 

All  this  time  he  had  been  holding  my  hand,  while  I  have 
pretended  to  be  unconscious  of  the  fact.  Suddenly  I 
seem  to  remember,  and  reluctantly  he  lets  my  fingers  slip 
through  his. 

We  bid  each  other  adieu  in  the  arbour.  I  do  not  go  to 
"see  him  off,"  and  I  keep  the  picture  of  Jim  Wyndham 
under  the  roof  of  roses,  in  the  moon-  and  candle-light. 

Just  so  I  have  kept  it  for  more  than  three  years;  for  we 
never  met  again.  And  now  that  I've  seen  the  photograph 
of  Jimmy  Beckett,  I  know  that  we  never  shall  meet. 

Why  he  did  not  find  us  when  the  fortnight  of  his  bet  was 
over  I  can't  imagine.  It  seems  that,  if  he  tried,  he  must 
have  come  upon  our  tracks,  for  we  travelled  scarcely  more 
than  twenty  miles  in  the  two  weeks.  Perhaps  he  changed 
his  mind,  and  did  not  try.  Perhaps  he  feared  that  my 
"romantic  beauty"  might  lose  its  romance,  when  seen  for 
the  second  time.  Something  like  this  must  be  the  ex 
planation;  and  I  confess  to  you,  Padre,  that  the  failure  of 
the  prince  to  keep  our  tryst  was  the  biggest  disappointment 
and  the  sharpest  humiliation  of  my  life.  It  took  most  of 
the  conceit  out  of  me,  and  since  then  I've  never  been  vain 
of  my  alleged  "looks"  or  "charm"  for  more  than  two 
minutes  on  end.  I've  invariably  said  to  myself,  "Remem 
ber  Jim  Wyndham,  and  how  he  didn't  think  you  worth 
the  bother  of  coming  back  to  see." 

Now  you  know  why  I  can't  describe  the  effect  upon  my 
mind  of  learning  that  Jim  Wyndham,  the  hero  of  my  one- 
day  romance,  and  Jimmy  Beckett,  the  dead  American 
aviator,  were  one. 


CHAPTER  III 

THERE  could  be  no  chance  of  mistake.     The  pho 
tograph  was  a  very  good  likeness. 
For  a  while  I  sat  quite  still  with  the  newspaper 
in  my  hands,  living  over  the  day  in  the  shabby  old  garden. 
I  felt  like  a  mourner,  bereaved  of  a  loved  one,  for  in  a  way — 
a  schoolgirl  way,  perhaps — I  had  loved  my  prince  of  the 
arbour.     And  always  since  our  day  together,  I'd  compared 
other  men  with  him,  to  their  disadvantage.     No  one  else 
ever  captured  my  imagination  as  he  captured  it  in  those 
few  hours. 

For  a  moment  that  little  bit  of  Long  Ago  pushed  itself 
between  me  and  Now.  I  was  grieving  for  my  dead  ro 
mance,  instead  of  for  Brian's  broken  life :  but  quickly  I 
woke  up.  Things  were  as  bad  as  ever  again,  and  even 
worse,  because  of  their  contrast  with  the  past  I'd  con 
jured  up.  Grief  for  the  death  of  Jimmy  Beckett  mingled 
with  grief  for  Brian,  and  anxieties  about  money,  in  the 
dull,  sickly  way  that  unconnected  troubles  tangle  them 
selves  together  in  nightmare  dreams. 

I'm  not  telling  you  how  I  suffered,  as  an  excuse  for  what 
I  did,  dear  Padre.  I'm  only  explaining  how  one  thing 
led  to  another. 

It  was  in  thinking  of  Jim  Wyndham,  and  what  might 
have  happened  between  us  if  he'd  come  back  to  me  as  he 
promised,  that  the  awful  idea  developed  in  my  head. 

26 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  27 

The  thought  wasn't  born  full-grown  and  armoured,  like 
Minerva  when  she  sprang  from  the  brain  of  Jupiter.  It 
began  like  this : 

"If  I'd  been  engaged  to  him,  I  might  have  gone  to  his 
parents  now.  I  should  have  comforted  them  by  talking 
about  their  son,  and  they  could  have  comforted  me.  Per 
haps  they  would  have  adopted  us  as  their  children.  We 
need  never  have  been  lonely  and  poor.  Jim  would  have 
wished  us  to  live  with  his  father  and  mother,  for  all  our 
sakes." 

When  the  thought  had  gone  as  far  as  this,  it  suddenly 
leaped  to  an  enormous  height,  as  if  a  devil  in  me  had 
been  doing  the  mango  trick. 

I  heard  myself  thinking,  "Why  don't  you  go  to  see  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Beckett,  and  tell  them  you  were  engaged  to 
marry  their  only  son?  The  paper  said  he  left  no  fiancee  or 
wife  in  America.  You  can  easily  make  them  believe  your 
story.  Nobody  can  prove  that  it  isn't  true,  and  out  of 
evil  good  will  come  for  everyone." 

Flames  seemed  to  rush  through  my  head  with  a  loud 
noise,  like  the  Tongues  of  Fire  in  the  Upper  Room.  My 
whole  body  was  in  a  blaze.  Each  nerve  was  a  separate 
red-hot  wire. 

I  rose  to  my  feet,  but  I  made  no  sound.  Instinct 
reminded  me  that  I  mustn't  wake  Briar,  but  I  could 
breathe  better,  think  better  standing,  I  felt. 

"They  are  millionaires,  the  Becketts — millionaires!"  a 
voice  was  repeating  in  my  brain.  They  wouldn't  let 
Brian  or  you  want  for  anything.  They'd  be  glad  if  you 
went  to  them.  You  could  make  them  happy.  You 
could  tell  them  things  theyV  love  to  hear — and  some 


28  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

would  be  true  things.  You  were  in  the  hospital  close  to 
St.  Raphael  for  months,  while  Jimmy  Beckett  was  in  the 
training  camp.  Who's  to  say  you  didn't  meet?  If  you'd 
been  engaged  to  him  since  that  day  years  ago,  you  cer 
tainly  would  have  met.  No  rules  could  have  kept  you 
apart.  Go  to  them — go  to  them — or  if  you're  afraid, 
write  a  note,  and  ask  if  they'll  receive  you.  If  they  refuse, 
no  harm  will  have  been  done." 

Maybe,  even  then,  if  I'd  stopped  to  tell  myself  what  a 
wicked,  cruel  plan  it  was,  I  should  have  given  it  up.  But 
it  seemed  a  burning  inspiration,  and  I  knew  that 'I  must 
act  upon  it  at  once  or  never. 

I  subsided  into  my  chair  again,  and  softly,  very  softly, 
hitched  it  closer  to  the  table  which  pretended  to  be  a 
writing-desk.  Inside  a  blotting-pad  were  a  few  sheets  of 
hotel  stationery  and  envelopes.  My  stylographic  pen 
glided  noiselessly  over  the  paper.  Now  and  then  I 
glanced  over  my  shoulder  at  Brian,  and  he  was  still  fast 
asleep,  looking  more  like  an  angel  than  a  man.  You  know 
my  nickname  for  him  was  always  "Saint"  because  of  his 
beautiful  pure  face,  and  the  far-away  look  in  his  eyes. 
Being  a  soldier  has  merely  bronzed  him  a  little.  It  hasn't 
carved  any  hard  lines.  Being  blind  has  made  the  far 
away  things  he  used  to  see  come  near,  so  that  he  walks  in 
the  midst  of  them. 

I  wrote  quickly  and  with  a  dreadful  kind  of  ease,  not 
hesitating  or  crossing  out  a  single  word. 

"Dear  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Beckett,"  I  began  (because  I  meant  to 
address  my  letter  to  both).  "I've  just  heard  that  you  have 
come  over  from  America,  only  in  time  to  learn  of  your  great  loss. 
Is  it  an  intrusion  to  tell  you  that  your  loss  is  mine  too?  I  dearly 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  29 

loved  your  son.  I  met  him  nearly  four  years  ago,  when  my 
brother  and  I  were  travelling  in  France  and  Belgium.  Our 
meeting  was  the  romance  of  my  life.  I  hardly  dare  to  think 
he  told  you  about  it.  But  a  few  months  ago  I  took  up  nursing 
at  the  Hopital  des  Epidemics,  near  St.  Raphael.  As  you  know, 
he  was  there  training.  He  sent  us  a  cheque  for  our  sufferers;  and 
what  was  fated  to  happen  did  happen.  We  met  again.  We 
loved  each  other.  We  were  engaged.  He  may  have  written 
to  you,  or  he  may  have  waited  till  he  could  tell  you  by  word  of 
mouth. 

"I  am  in  Paris,  as  you  will  see  by  this  address.  My  soldier 
brother  has  lost  his  sight.  I  brought  him  here  in  the  hope 
of  a  cure  by  your  great  American  specialist  Dr.  Cuyler,  but 
he  tells  me  an  operation  would  be  useless.  They  say  that  one 
sorrow  blunts  another.  I  do  not  find  it  so.  My  heart  is  almost 
breaking.  May  I  call  upon  you?  To  see  his  father  and  mother 
would  be  a  comfort  to  me.  But  if  it  would  be  otherwise  for  you, 
please  say  'no.'  I  will  try  to  understand. 

"Yours  in  deepest  sympathy, 

"MARYO'MALLEY." 

As  I  finished,  Brian  waked  from  his  nap,  so  I  was  able  to 
leave  him  and  run  downstairs  to  send  off  the  letter  by 
hand. 

When  it  had  gone,  I  felt  somewhat  as  I've  felt  when  near 
a  man  to  whom  an  anaesthetic  is  being  given.  The  fumes 
of  ether  have  an  odd  effect  on  me.  They  turn  me  into  a 
"don't  care"  sort  of  person  without  conscience  and  with 
out  fear.  No  wonder  some  nations  give  soldiers  a  dash 
of  ether  in  their  drink,  when  they  have  to  go  "over  the 
top!"  I  could  go,  and  feel  no  sense  of  danger,  even 
though  my  reason  knew  that  it  existed. 

So  it  was  while  I  waited  for  the  messenger  from  our  mean 


30  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

little  hotel  to  come  back  from  the  magnificent  Ritz. 
Would  he  suddenly  dash  my  sinful  hopes  by  saying,  "Pas 
de  r£ponse,  Mademoiselle";  or  would  he  bring  me  a  letter 
from  Father  and  Mother  Beckett?  If  he  brought 
such  a  letter,  would  it  invite  me  to  call  and  be  inspected, 
or  would  it  suggest  that  I  kindly  go  to  the  devil? 

I  was  tremendously  keyed  up;  and  yet — curiously  I 
didn't  care  which  of  these  things  happened.  It  was  rather 
as  if  I  were  in  a  theatre,  watching  an  act  of  a  play  that 
might  end  in  one  of  several  ways,  neither  one  of  which 
would  really  matter. 

I  read  aloud  to  Brian.  My  voice  sounded  sweet  and 
well  modulated,  I  thought;  but  quite  like  that  of  a  stranger. 
I  was  reading  some  moving  details  of  a  vast  battle,  which 
— ordinarily — would  have  stirred  me  to  the  heart.  But 
they  made  no  impression  on  my  brain.  I  forgot  the  words 
as  they  left  my  lips.  Dimly  I  wondered  if  there  were  a 
curse  falling  upon  me  already :  if  I  were  doomed  to  lose  all 
sense  of  grief  or  joy,  as  the  man  in  the  old  story  lost  his 
shadow  when  he  sold  it  to  Satan. 

A  long  time  passed.  I  stopped  reading.  Brian  seemed 
inclined  for  the  first  time  since  his  misfortune  to  talk  over 
ways  and  means,  and  how  we  were  to  arrange  our  future. 
I  shirked  the  discussion.  Things  would  adjust  themselves, 
I  said  evasively.  I  had  some  vague  plans.  Perhaps  they 
would  soon  materialize.  Even  by  to-morrow 

When  I  had  got  as  far  as  that,  tap,  tap,  came  the  long 
expected  knock  at  the  door.  I  sprang  up.  Suddenly  the 
ether-like  carelessness  was  gone.  My  life — my  very  soul — 
was  at  stake.  I  could  hardly  utter  the  little  word 
"Entrez  /"  my  throat  was  so  tight,  so  dry. 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  31 

The  very  young  youth  who  opened  the  door  was  not  the 
one  I  had  sent  to  the  Ritz.  But  I  had  no  time  to  wonder 
why  not,  when  he  announced:  "Un  monsieur  et  une  dame, 
en  bas,  demandent  a  voir  Mademoiselle." 

My  head  whirled.  Could  it  be? — but,  surely  no !  They 
would  not  have  come  to  see  me.  Yet  whom  did  I  know  in 
Paris?  Who  had  learned  that  we  were  at  this  hotel? 
Had  the  monsieur  and  the  dame  given  their  name?  No, 
they  had  not.  They  had  said  that  Mademoiselle  would 
understand.  They  were  in  the  salon. 

I  heard  myself  reply  that  I  would  descend  tout  de  suite. 
I  heard  myself  tell  Brian  that  I  should  not  be  long  away. 
I  saw  my  face  in  the  glass,  deathly  pale  in  its  frame  of 
dark  hair,  the  eyes  immense,  with  the  pupils  dilating  over 
the  blue,  as  an  inky  pool  might  drown  a  border  of  violets 
and  blot  out  their  colour.  Even  my  lips  were  white.  I 
was  glad  I  had  on  a  black  dress — glad  in  a  bad,  deceitful 
way;  though  for  a  moment  after  learning  who  Jimmy 
Beckett  was,  I  had  felt  a  true  thrill  of  loyal  satisfaction 
because  I  was  in  mourning  for  my  lost  romance. 

I  went  slowly  down  the  four  flights  of  stairs.  I  could 
not  have  gone  fast  without  falling.  I  opened  the  door  of 
the  stuffy  salon,  and  saw — the  dearest  couple  the  wide 
world  could  hold. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THEY  sat  together,  an  old-fashioned  pair,  on  an 
old-fashioned  sofa,  facing  the  door.   The  thing  I'd 
thought  impossible  had  happened.    The  father 
and  mother  of  Jim  Beckett  had  come  to  me. 

For  some  reason,  they  seemed  as  much  surprised  at 
sight  of  me  as  I  at  sight  of  them.  We  gazed  at  each  other 
for  an  instant,  all  three  without  moving.  Then  the  old 
man  (he  was  old,  not  middle-aged,  as  most  fathers  are 
nowadays)  got  to  his  feet.  He  took  a  step  toward  me, 
holding  out  his  hand.  His  eyes  searched  mine;  and, 
dimmed  by  years  and  sorrow  as  they  were,  there  was  in 
them  still  a  reminder  of  the  unforgotten,  eaglejgaze. 
From  him  the  son  had  inherited  his  high  nose  and ;  s&uare 
forehead.  Had  he  lived,  some  day  Jim's  face  mighf  have 
been  chopped  by  Time's  hatchet  into  just  such  a  r,ugg;ed 
brown  mask  of  old-manliness.  Some  day,  Jim's  tlnck^nd  • 
smooth  brown  hair  might  have  turned  into  such',  a  snow- 
covered  thatch,  like  the  roof  of  a  cottage  on  a  Christmas, 
card. 

The  old  lady  was  thin  and  flat  of  line,  like  a  bas-relief 
that  had  come  alive  and  lost  its  background.  ,  She  had  in 
her  forget-me-not  blue  eyes  the  look  of  a  child  who  has 
never  been  allowed  to  grow  up;  and  I  knew  at  once  that 
she  was  one  of  those  women  kept  by  their  menfolk  on  a 
high  shelf,  like  a  fragile  flower  in  a  silver  vase.  She.  too, 

32  - 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  33 

rose  as  I  entered,  but  sank  down  again  on  the  sofa  with 
a  little  gesture  at  the  same  time  welcoming  and  helpless. 

"My  daughter,  no  wonder  he  loved  you!"  said  the  old 
man.  "Now  we  see  you,  we  understand,  don't  we, 
Jenny?"  Holding  my  hand,  he  turned  and  led  me  to 
ward  his  wife,  looking  at  me  first,  then  at  her.  "We 
had  to  come.  We're  going  to  love  you,  for  yourself — and 
for  him." 

Speaking,  his  face  had  a  faintly  perceptible  quiver  of 
strained  nerves  or  old  age,  like  a  sigh  of  wind  ruffling 
the  calm  surface  of  water.  I  felt  how  he  fought  to  hide 
his  emotion,  and  the  answering  thrill  of  it  shot  up  through 
my  arm,  as  our  hands  touched.  My  heart  beat  wildly, 
and  the  queer  thought  came  that,  if  we  were  in  the  dark, 
it  would  send  out  pulsing  lights  from  my  body  like  the 
internal  lamp  of  a  firefly. 

He  called  me  his  "daughter!"  As  I  heard  that  word  of 
love,  which  I  had  stolen,  I  realized  the  full  shame  and 
abomination  of  the  thing  I  had  done.  My  impulse  was 
to  cry  out  the  truth.  But  it  was  only  an  impulse,  such 
an  impulse  as  lures  one  to  jump  from  a  height.  I  caught 
myself  back  from  yielding,  as  I  would  have  caught  my 
self  back  from  the  precipice,  lest  in  another  moment  I 
should  lie  crushed  in  a  dark  gulf.  I  waved  before  my  eyes 
the  flag  of  Brian's  need,  and  my  bad  courage  came  back. 

I  let  Mr.  Beckett  lead  me  to  the  sofa.  I  let  his  hand  on 
my  shoulder  gently  press  me  to  sit  down  by  his  wife,  who 
had  not  spoken  yet.  Her  blue  eyes,  fixed  with  piteous 
earnestness  on  mine,  were  like  those  of  a  timid  animal, 
when  it  is  making  up  its  mind  whether  to  trust  and  "  take 
to"  a  human  stranger  who  offers  advances.  I  seemed  to 


34  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

see  her  thinking — thinking  not  so  much  with  her  brain  as 
with  her  heart,  as  you  used  to  say  Brian  thought.  I  saw 
her  ideas  move  as  if  they'd  been  the  works  of  a  watch  tick 
ing  under  glass.  I  knew  that  she  wasn't  clever  enough  to 
read  my  mind,  but  I  felt  that  she  was  more  dangerous, 
perhaps,  than  a  person  of  critical  intelligence.  Being  one 
of  those  always-was,  always-will-be  women — wife-women, 
mother-women  she  might  by  instinct  see  the  badness  of 
my  heart  as  I  was  reading  the  simple  goodness  of  hers. 

Her  longing  to  know  the  soul  of  me  pierced  to  it  like  a 
fine  crystal  spear;  and  the  pathos  of  this  bereaved  mother 
and  father,  who  had  so  generously  answered  my  call, 
brought  tears  to  my  eyes.  I  had  not  winced  away  from 
her  blue  searchlights,  but  tears  gathered  and  suddenly 
poured  over  my  cheeks.  Perhaps  it  was  the  tragedy  of 
my  own  situation  more  than  hers  which  touched  me,  for 
I  was  pitying  as  much  as  hating  myself.  Still  the  tears 
were  true  tears;  and  I  suppose  nothing  I  could  have  said 
or  done  would  have  appealed  to  Jim  Beckett's  mother 
as  they  appealed. 

"Oh!  you  loved  him!"  she  quavered,  as  if  that  were  the 
one  question  for  which  she  had  sought  the  answer.  And 
the  next  thing  I  knew  we  were  crying  in  each  other's  arms, 
the  little  frail  woman  and  the  cruel  girl  who  was  deceiving 
her.  But,  Padre,  the  cruel  girl  was  suffering  almost  as  she 
deserved  to  suffer.  She  had  loved  Jim  Wyndham,  and 
never  will  she  love  another  man. 

"There,  there!"  Mr.  Beckett  was  soothing  us,  patting 
our  shoulders  and  our  heads.  "  That's  right,  cry  together, 
but  don't  grudge  Jim  to  the  cause,  either  of  you.  I  don't ! 
I'm  proud  he  went  the  way  he  did.  It  was  a  grand  way — 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  35 

and  a  grand  cause.  We've  got  to  remember  how  many 
other  hearts  in  the  world  are  aching  as  ours  ache.  We're 
not  alone.  I  guess  that  helps  a  little.  And  Jenny,  this 
poor  child  has  a  double  sorrow  to  bear.  Think  of  what  she 
wrote  about  her  brother,  who's  lost  his  sight." 

The  little  old  lady  sat  up,  and  with  a  clean,  lavender- 
scented  handkerchief  wiped  first  my  eyes  and  then  her  own. 

"I  know— I  know,"  she  said.  "But  the  child  will  let 
us  try  to  comfort  her — unless  she  has  a  father  and  mother 
of  her  own?" 

"My  father  and  mother  died  when  I  was  a  little  girl," 
I  answered.  "  I've  only  my  brother  in  the  world." 

"You  have  us,"  they  both  exclaimed  in  the  same  breath : 
and  though  they  bore  as  much  physical  likeness  to  one 
another  as  a  delicate  mountain-ash  tree  bears  to  the  rocky 
mountain  on  which  it  grows,  suddenly  the  two  faces  were 
so  lit  with  the  same  beautiful  inward  light,  that  there  was  a 
striking  resemblance  between  them.  It  was  the  kind  of 
resemblance  to  be  seen  only  on  the  faces  of  a  pair  who 
have  loved  each  other,  and  thought  the  same  thoughts 
long  year  after  long  year.  The  light  was  so  warm,  so  pure 
and  bright,  that  I  felt  as  if  a  fire  had  been  lit  for  me  in  the 
cold  dark  room.  I  didn't  deserve  to  warm  my  hands  in 
its  glow;  but  I  forgot  my  falseness  for  a  moment,  and  let 
whatever  was  good  in  me  flow  out  in  gratitude. 

I  couldn't  speak.  I  could  only  look,  and  kiss  the  old 
lady's  tiny  hand — ungloved  to  hold  mine,  and  hung  with 
loose  rings  of  rich,  ancient  fashion  such  as  children  love 
to  be  shown  in  mother's  jewel-box.  In  return,  she  kissed 
me  on  both  cheeks,  and  the  old  man  smoothed  my  hair, 
heavily. 


36  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

"Why  yes, that's  settled  then,  you  belong  to  us,"  he  said. 
"It's  just  as  if  Jimmy 'd  left  you  to  us  in  his  will.  In  his 
last  letter  the  boy  told  his  mother  and  me  that  when  we 
met  we'd  get  a  pleasant  surprise.  We — silly  old  folks! 
— never  thought  of  a  love  story.  We  supposed  Jim  was 
booked  for  promotion,  or  a  new  job  with  some  sort  of 
honour  attached  to  it.  And  yet  we  might  have  guessed,  if 
we'd  had  our  wits  about  us,  for  we  did  know  that  Jimmy 'd 
fallen  in  love  at  first  sight  with  a  girl  in  France,  before  the 
war  broke  out." 

"He  told  you  that!"  I  almost  gasped.  Then  he  had 
fallen  in  love,  and  hadn't  gone  away  forgetting,  as  I?d 
thought!  Or  was  it  some  other  girl  who  had  won  him  at 
first  sight?  This  was  what  I  said  to  myself:  and  some 
thing  that  was  not  myself  added,  "Now,  if  you  don't 
lose  your  head,  you  will  find  out  in  a  minute  all  you've  been 
puzzling  over  for  nearly  four  years." 

"He  told  his  mother,"  Mr.  Beckett  said.  "Afterwards 
she  told  me.  Jim  wouldn't  have  minded.  He  knew  well 
enough  she  always  tells  me  every  thing,  and  he  didn't  ask 
her  to  keep  any  secret." 

"It  was  when  I  was  sort  of  cross  one  night,  because  he 
didn't  pay  enough  attention  to  a  nice  girl  I'd  invited, 
hoping  to  please  him,"  Mrs.  Beckett  confessed.  "He'd 
just  come  back  from  Europe,  and  I  enquired  if  the  French 
girls  were  so  handsome,  they'd  spoiled  him  for  our  home 
beauties.  I  let  him  see  that  his  father  and  I  wanted  him  to 
marry  young,  and  give  us  a  daughter  we  could  love.  Then 
he  answered — I  remember  as  if  'twas  yesterday ! — 'Mother, 
you  wouldn't  want  her  unless  I  could  love  her  too,  would 
you?'  'Why  no,'  I  answered.  'But  you  would  love  her!' 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  37 

He  didn't  speak  for  a  minute.  He  was  holding  my  hand, 
counting  my  rings — these  ones  you  see — like  he  always 
loved  to  do  from  a  child.  When  he'd  counted  them  all,  he 
looked  up  and  said,  'It  wasn't  a  French  girl  spoiled  me  for 
the  others.  I'm  not  sure,  but  I  think  she  was  Irish.  I 
lost  her,  like  a  fool,  trying  to  win  a  silly  bet.'  Those  were 
his  very  words.  I  know,  because  they  struck  me  so 
I  teased  him  to  explain.  After  a  while  he  did." 

"  Oh,  do  tell  me  what  he  said ! "  I  begged. 
^  rAt  that  minute  Jim  was  alive  for  us  all  three.  We  were 
living  with  him  in  the  past.  I  think  none  of  us  saw  the 
little  stuffy  room  where  we  sat.  Only  our  bodies  were 
there,  like  the  empty,  amber  shells  of  locusts  when  the 
locusts  have  freed  themselves  and  vanished.  I  was  in  a 
rose  arbour,  on  a  day  of  late  June,  in  a  garden  by  a  canal 
that  led  to  Belgium.  The  Becketts  were  in  their  house 
across  the  sea. 

"Why,"  his  mother  hesitated,  "it  was  quite  a  story. 
But  when  he  found  you  again  he  must  have  told  you  it 
all." 

"Ah,  but  do  tell  me  what  he  told  you!" 

"Well,  it  began  with  a  landlady  in  a  hotel  wanting  him 
to  see  a  picture.  The  artist  was  away,  but  his  sister  was 
there.  That  was  you,  my  dear." 

"Yes,  it  was  I.  My  poor  Brian  painted  such  beautiful 
things  before " 

"We  know  they  were  beautiful,  because  we've  seen  the 
picture,"  Father  Beckett  broke  in.  "But  go  on,  Mother. 
We'll  tell  about  the  picture  by  and  by.  She'll  like  to  hear. 
But  the  rest  first!" 

The  little  old  lady  obeyed,  and  went  on.     "Jimmy  said 


38  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

he  was  taken  to  a  room,  and  there  stood  the  most  won 
derful  girl  he'd  ever  seen  in  his  life — his  'dream  come  alive.' 
That's  how  he  described  her.  And  there  was  more. 
Pather,  I  never  told  you  this  part.  But  maybe  Miss — 
Miss " 

"Will  you  call  me  'Mary'?"  I  asked. 

"Maybe  'Mary*  would  like  to  hear.  Of  course  I  never 
forgot  one  word.  No  mother  could  forget!  And  now  I 
see  he  described  you  just  right.  When  you  hear,  you'll 
know  it  was  love  made  his  talk  about  you  poetry-like. 
Jimmy  never  talked  that  way  to  me  of  any  one,  before  or 
since." 

Padre,  I  am  going  to  write  down  the  things  he  said  of  me, 
because  it  is  exquisite  to  know  that  he  thought  them.  He 
said,  I  had  eyes  "like  sapphires  fallen  among  dark  grasses." 
And  my  hair  was  so  heavy  and  thick  that,  if  I  pulled  out 
the  pins,  it  would  fall  around  me  "in  a  black  avalanche." 

Ah,  the  joy  and  the  pain  of  hearing  these  words  like  an 
echo  of  music  I  had  nearly  missed!  There's  no  language 
for  what  I  felt.  But  you  will  understand. 

He  had  told  his  mother  about  our  day  together.  He 
said,  he  kept  falling  deeper  in  love  every  minute,  and  it 
was  all  he  could  do  not  to  exclaim,  "  Girl,  I  simply  must 
marry  you!"  He  dared  not  say  that  lest  I  should  refuse, 
and  there  would  be  an  end  of  everything.  So  he  tried  as 
hard  as  he  could  to  make  me  like  him,  and  remember  him 
till  he  should  come  back,  in  two  weeks.  He  thought  that 
was  the  best  way;  and  he  would  have  let  his  bet  slide  if  he 
hadn't  imagined  that  a  little  mystery  might  make  him 
more  interesting  in  my  eyes.  Believing  that  we  had 
met  again,  Mrs.  Beckett  supposed  that  he  had  explained ' 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  39 

this  to  me.  But  of  course  it  was  all  new,  and  when  she 
came  to  the  reason  why  Jim  Wyndham  had  never  come 
back,  I  thought  for  a  moment  I  should  faint.  He  was 
taken  ill  in  Paris,  three  days  after  we  parted,  with  typhoid 
fever;  and  though  it  was  never  a  desperate  case — owing  to 
his  strong  constitution — he  was  delirious  for  weeks. 
Two  months  passed  before  he  was  well  enough  to  look  for 
me,  and  by  that  time  all  trace  of  us  was  lost.  Brian  and  I 
had  gone  to  England  long  before.  Jim's  friend — the  one 
with  whom  he  had  the  bet — wired  to  the  Becketts  that  he 
was  ill,  but  not  dangerously,  and  they  weren't  to  come  over 
to  France.  It  was  only  when  he  reached  home  that  they 
knew  how  serious  the  trouble  had  been. 

While  I  was  listening,  learning  that  Jim  had  really  loved 
me,  and  searched  for  me,  it  seemed  that  I  had  a  right  to 
him  after  all:  that  I  was  an  honest  girl,  hearing  news  of 
her  own  man,  from  his  own  people.  It  was  only  when  Mr. 
Beckett  began  to  draw  me  out,  with  a  quite  pathetic 
shyness,  on  the  subject  of  our  worldly  resources  that  I 
was  brought  up  short  again,  against  the  dark  wall  of 
my  deceit.  It  should  have  been  exquisite,  it  was  heart 
breaking,  to  see  how  he  feared  to  hurt  my  feelings  with 
some  offer  of  help  from  his  abundance.  "Hurt  my 
feelings!"  And  it  was  with  the  sole  intention  of 
"working"  them  for  money  that  I'd  written  to  the  Bec 
ketts. 

That  looks  horrible  in  black  and  white,  doesn't  it, 
Padre?  But  I  won't  try  to  hide  my  motives  behind  a 
dainty  screen,  from  your  eyes  or  mine.  I  had  wanted  and 
meant  to  get  as  much  as  I  could  for  Brian  and  myself  out 
of  Jim  Beckett's  father  and  mother.  And  now,  when  I 


40  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

was  on  the  way  to  obtain  my  object,  more  easily  than  I 
had  expected — now,  when  I  saw  the  kind  of  people  they 
were — now,  when  I  knew  that  to  Jim  Wyndham  I  had 
been  an  ideal,  "his  dream  come  true."  I  saw  my  own  face 
as  in  a  mirror.  It  was  like  the  sly,  mean  face  of  a  serpent 
disguised  as  a  woman. 

I  remember  once  saying  to  you,  Padre,  when  you  had 
read  aloud  "The  Idylls  of  the  King"  to  Brian  and  me  as 
children,  that  Vivien  was  the  worst  cad  I  ever  heard  of 
since  the  beginning  of  the  world!  I  haven't  changed  my 
mind  about  her  since,  except  that  I  give  her  second  place. 
I  am  in  the  first. 

I  suppose,  when  I  first  pictured  the  Becketts  (if  I  stopped 
to  picture  them  at  all)  I  imagined  they  would  be  an  ordin 
ary  American  millionaire  and  millionairess,  bow-fronted, 
self-important  creatures;  the  old  man  with  a  diamond  stud 
like  a  headlight,  the  old  lady  afraid  to  take  cold  if  she 
left  off  an  extra  row  of  pearls.  In  our  desperate  state, 
anything  seemed  fair  in  love  or  war  with  such  hard,  worth- 
their- weight-in-gold  people.  But  I  ought  to  have  known 
that  a  man  like  Jim  Beckett  couldn't  have  such  parents! 
I  ought  to  have  known  they  wouldn't  be  in  the  common 
class  of  millionaires  of  any  country;  and  that  whatever 
their  type  they  would  be  unique. 

Well,  I  hadn't  known.  Then*  kindness,  their  dear  human- 
ness,  their  simplicity,  overwhelmed  me  as  the  gifts  of 
shields  and  bracelets  from  the  Roman  warriors  over 
whelmed  treacherous  Tarpeia.  And  when  they  began 
delicately  begging  me  to  be  their  adopted  daughter — the 
,  very  thing  I'd  prayed  for  to  the  devil! — I  felt  a  hundred 
times  wickeder  than  if  Jim  hadn't  set  me  on  a  high  pedes- 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  41 

tal,  where  they  wished  to  keep  me  with  their  money, 
their  love,  as  offerings. 

J?.  .Whether  I  should  have  broken  down  and  confessed 
everything,  or  brazened  it  out  in  spite  of  all  if  I'd  been 
left  alone  to  decide,  I  shall  never  know.  For  just  then 
the  door  opened,  and  Brian  came  into  the  room. 


CHAPTER  V 

WHY  Brian's  coming  should  make  all  the  differ 
ence  may  puzzle  you,  Padre,  but  I'll  explain. 
Ours  is  an  amateurish  hotel,  especially  since 
the  war.    Any  one  who  happens  to  have  the  time  or  in 
clination  runs  it:  or  if  no  one  has  time  it  runs  itself.     Con 
sequently  mistakes  are  made.     But  what  can  you  expect 
for  eight  francs  a  day,  with  pension? 

I  said  that  a  very  young  youth  brought  up  the  news  of 
the  Becketts'  arrival.  He'd  merely  announced  that  "un 
monsieur  et  une  dame"  had  called.  Apparently  they  had 
given  no  names,  no  cards.  But  in  truth  there  were  cards, 
which  had  been  mislaid,  or  in  other  words  left  upon  the 
desk  in  the  bureau,  with  the  numbers  of  both  our  rooms 
scrawled  on  them  in  pencil.  Nobody  was  there  at  the  time, 
but  when  the  concierge  came  back  (he  is  a  sort  of  unofficial 
understudy  for  the  mobilized  manager)  he  saw  the  cards 
and  sent  them  upstairs.  They  were  taken  to  Brian  and 
the  names  read  aloud  to  him.  He  supposed,  from  vague 
information  supplied  by  the  garqon  (it  was  a  gargon  this 
time)  that  I  wished  him  to  come  and  join  me  in  the  salon 
with  my  guests.  He  hated  the  thought  of  meeting 
strangers  (the  name  "Beckett"  meant  nothing  to  him), 
but  if  he  were  wanted  by  his  sister,  he  never  yet  left  her 
in  the  lurch. 

He  and  I  both  knew  the  house  with  our  eyes  shut,  before 

42 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  43 

the  war;  and  now  that  Brian  is  blind,  he  practises  in  the 
most  reckless  way  going  about  by  himself.  He  refused  to 
be  led  to  the  salon:  he  came  unaided  and  unerring:  and 
I  thought  when  he  appeared  at  the  door,  I'd  never  seen 
him  look  so  beautiful.  He  is  beautiful  you  know!  Now 
that  his  physical  eyesight  is  gone,  and  he's  developing  that 
mysterious  "inner  sight"  of  which  he  talks,  there's  no 
other  adjective  which  truly  expresses  him.  He  stood 
there  for  a  minute  with  his  hand  on  the  door-knob,  with 
all  the  light  in  the  room  (there  wasn't  much)  shining 
straight  into  his  face.  It  couldn't  help  doing  that,  as  the 
one  window  is  nearly  opposite  the  door;  but  really  it  does 
seem  sometimes  that  light  seeks  BrianV  face,  as  the  "spot 
light "  in  theatres  follows  the  hero  or  heroine  of  a  play. 

There  was  an  asking  smile  on  his  lips,  and — by  accident, 
of  course — his  dear  blind  eyes  looked  straight  at  Mrs. 
Beckett.  We  are  enough  alike,  we  twins,  for  any  one  to 
know  at  a  glance  that  we're  brother  and  sister,  so  the 
Becketts  would  have  known,  of  course,  even  if  I  hadn't 
cried  out  in  surprise,  "  Brian ! " 

They  took  it  for  granted  that  Brian  would  have  heard 
all  about  their  son  Jim;  so,  touched  by  the  pathos  of  his 
blindness — the  lonely  pathos  (for  a  blind  man  is  as  lonely 
as  a  daylight  moon !)  Mrs.  Beckett  almost  ran  to  him  and 
took  his  hand. 

"We're  the  Becketts,  with  your  sister,"  she  said* 
"Jimmy's  father  and  mother.  I  expect  you  didn't  meet 
him  when  they  were  getting  engaged  to  each  other  at 
St.  Raphael.  But  he  loved  your  picture  that  he  bought 
just  before  the  war.  He  used  to  say,  if  only  you'd  signed 
it,  his  whole  life  might  have  been  different.  That  was 


44  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

when  he'd  lost  Mary,  you  see — and  he'd  got  hold  of  her 
name  quite  wrong.  He  thought  it  was  Ommalee,  and  we 
never  knew  a  word  about  the  engagement,  or  her  real 
name  or  anything,  till  the  letter  came  to  us  at  our  hotel 
to-day.  Then  we  hurried  around  here,  as  quick  as  we 
could ;  and  she  promised  to  be  our  adopted  daughter.  That 
means  you  will  have  to  be  our  adopted  son ! " 

I  think  Mrs.  Beckett  is  too  shy  to  like  talking  much  at 
ordinary  times.  She  would  rather  let  her  big  husband 
talk,  and  listen  admiringly  to  him.  But  this  wasn't 
an  ordinary  time.  To  see  Brian  stand  at  the  door,  wistful 
and  alone,  gave  her  a  pain  in  her  heart,  so  she  rushed  to 
him,  and  poured  out  all  these  kind  words,  which  left  him 
dazed. 

"You  are  very  good  to  me,"  he  answered,  too  thought 
ful  of  others'  feelings,  as  always,  to  blurt  out — as  most 
people  would — "I  don't  understand.  Who  are  you, 
please?  "  Instead,  his  sightless  but  beautiful  eyes  seemed 
to  search  the  room,  and  he  said,  "Molly,  you're  here, 
aren't  you?" 

Now  perhaps  you  begin  to  understand  why  his  coming, 
and  Mrs.  Beckett's  greeting  of  him,  stopped  me  from 
telling  the  truth — if  I  would  have  told  it.  I'm  not  sure 
if  I  would,  in  any  case,  Padre;  but  as  it  was  I  could  not. 
The  question  seemed  settled.  To  have  told  the  Becketts 
that  I  was  an  adventuress — a  repentant  adventuress — 
and  let  them  go  out  of  my  life  without  Brian  ever  knowing 
they'd  come  into  it  was  one  thing.  To  explain,  to  accuse 
myself  before  Brian,  to  make  him  despise  the  only  person 
he  had  to  depend  on,  and  so  to  spoil  the  world  for  him,  was 
another  thing. 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  45 

•  I  accepted  the  fate  I'd  summoned  like  the  genie  of  a 
lamp.     "Yes,  Brian,  I'm  here,"  I  answered.    And  I  went 
to  him,  and  took  possession  of  the  hand  Mrs.  Beckett  had 
left  free.     "  I  never  told  you  about  my  romance.     It  was  so 
short.    And — and  one  doesn't  put  the  most  sacred  things 
in  letters.     I  loved  a  man,  and  he  loved  me.     We  met  in 
France  before  the  war,  and  lost  each  other. 

"Afterward  he  came  back  to  fight.  A  few  days  ago  he 
fell — just  at  the  time  when  his  parents  had  hurried  over 
from  America  to  see  him.  I — I  couldn't  resist  writing 
them  a  letter,  though  they  were  strangers  to  me.  I " 

"That's  not  a  word  I  like  to  hear  on  your  lips — 

*  strangers',"  Mr.  Beckett  broke  in,  "even  though  you're 
speaking  of  the  past.    We're  all  one  family  now.    You 
don't  mind  my  saying  that,  Brian,  or  taking  it  for  granted 
you'll  consent — or  calling  you  Brian,  do  you?" 

"Mind!"  echoed  Brian,  with  his  sweet,  young  smile. 
" How  could  I  mind?  It's  like  something  in  a  story.  It's  a 
sad  story — because  the  hero's  gone  out  of  it — no,  he  hasn't 
gone,  really!  It  only  seems  so,  before  you  stop  to  think. 
I've  learned  enough  about  death  to  learn  that.  And  I 
can  tell  by  both  your  voices  you'll  be  friends  worth  hav 
ing." 

"Oh,  you  are  a  dear  boy!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Beckett. 
"God  is  good  to  give  you  and  your  sister  to  us  in  our  dark 
hour.  I  feel  as  if  Jimmy  were  here  with  us.  I  do  believe 
he  is!  I  know  he'd  like  me  to  tell  you  what  he  did  with 
your  picture,  and  what  we've  done  with  it  since,  his  father 
and  I." 

i     Brian  must  have  felt  that  it  would  be  good  for  us  all  to 
talk  of  the  pictures,  just  then,  not  of  this  "Jimmy"  who 


46  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

was  still  a  mystery  to  him.  He  caught  up  the  subject  and 
said  that  he  didn't  understand.  What  picture  was  it  of 
which  they  spoke?  He  generally  signed  his  initials,  but 
they'd  mentioned  that  this  was  unsigned 

"Don't  you  remember,"  I  explained,  "the  sketch  I  sold 
for  you  to  Mr.  Wyndham  when  we  were  tramping  through 
France?  You  told  me  when  you  came  back  from  Paris 
that  it  wasn't  quite  finished.  You'd  meant  to  put  on  a 
few  more  touches — and  your  signature.  Well,  *  Wynd 
ham  '  was  only  the  middle  name.  I  never  told  you  much 
about  that  day.  I  was  half  ashamed,  because  it  was  the 
day  when  my  romance  began  and — broke.  I  hoped  it 
might  begin  again  sometime,  but — but — you  shall  hear 
the  whole  story  soon.  Only — not  now." 

Even  as  I  promised  him,  I  promised  myself  to  tell  him 
nothing.  I  might  have  to  lie  in  deeds  to  Brian.  I  wouldn't 
lie  in  words.  Mrs.  Beckett  might  give  him  her  version  of 
her  son's  romance — some  day.  Just  at  the  moment  she 
was  relating,  almost  happily,  the  story  of  the  picture :  and 
it  was  for  me,  too. 

Jim  had  had  a  beautiful  frame  made  for  Brian's  cathe 
dral  sketch,  and  it  had  been  hung  in  the  best  place — over 
his  desk — in  the  special  sanctum  where  the  things  he  loved 
most  were  put.  In  starting  for  Europe  his  father  and 
mother  had  planned  to  stop  only  a  short  time  in  a  Paris 
hotel.  They  had  meant  to  take  a  house,  where  Jim  could 
join  them  whenever  he  got  a  few  days'  leave:  and  as  a 
surprise  for  him  they  had  brought  over  his  favourite 
treasures  from  the  "den."  Among  these  was  the  unsigned 
picture  painted  by  the  brother  of  The  Girl.  They  had 
even  chosen  the  house,  a  small  but  charming  old  chateau  to 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  47 

which  Jim  had  taken  a  fancy.  It  was  rather  close  to  the 
war  zone  in  these  days,  but  that  had  not  struck  them  as  an 
obstacle.  They  were  not  afraid.  They  had  wired,  before 
sailing,  to  a  Paris  agent,  telling  him  to  engage  the  chateau 
if  it  was  still  to  let  furnished.  On  arriving  the  answer 
awaited  them:  the  place  was  theirs. 

"We  thought  it  would  be  such  a  joy  to  Jim,"  Mrs. 
Beckett  said.  "He  fell  in  love  with  that  chateau  before 
he  came  down  with  typhoid.  I'll  show  you  a  snapshot  he 
took  of  it.  He  used  to  say  he'd  give  anything  to  live  there. 
And  crossing  on  the  ship  we  talked  every  day  of  how  we'd 
make  a  'den'  for  him,  full  of  his  own  things,  and  never 
breathe  a  word  till  he  opened  the  door  of  the  room.  We're 
in  honour  bound  to  take  the  house  now,  whether  or  not  we 
use  it — without  Jim.  I  don't  know  what  we  shall  do,  I'm 
sure!  All  I  know  is,  I  feel  as  if  it  would  kill  me  to  turn 
round  and  go  home  with  our  broken  hearts." 

"We've  got  new  obligations  right  here,  Jenny.  You 
mustn't  forget  that,"  said  Mr.  Beckett.  "Remember 
we've  just  adopted  a  daughter — and  a  son,  too.  We  must 
consult  them  about  our  movements." 

"Oh,  I  hadn't  forgotten!"  the  old  lady  cried.  "They 
— they'll  help  us  to  decide,  of  course.  But  just  now  I  can't 
make  myself  feel  as  if  one  thing  was  anv  better  than 
another.  If  only  we  could  think  of  something  Jim  would 
have  liked  us  to  do!  Something — patriotic — for  France." 

"Mary  has  seen  Jim  since  we  saw  him,  dear.  Perhaps 
from  talk  they  had  she'll  have  a  suggestion  to  make." 

" Oh  no ! "  I  cried.     "I've  no  suggestion." 

"'And  you,  Brian?"  the  old  man  persisted. 

Quickly  I  answered  for  my  brother.     "They  never  met! 


48  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

Brian  couldn't  know  what — Jim  would  have  lilted  you  to 
do." 

"It's  true,  I  can't  know,"  said  Brian.  "But  a  thought 
has  come  into  my  head.  Shall  I  tell  it  to  you  ?  " 

"Yes!"  the  Becketts  answered  in  a  breath.  They 
gazed  at  him  as  if  they  fancied  him  inspired  by  their  son's 
spirit.  No  wonder,  perhaps !  Brian  has  an  inspired  look. 

"Are  you  very  rich?"  he  asked  bluntly,  as  a  child  puts 
questions  which  grown-ups  veil. 

"We're  rich  in  money,"  answered  the  old  man.  "But 
I  guess  I  never  quite  realized  till  now,  when  we  lost  Jimmy, 
how  poor  you  can  be,  when  you're  only  rich  in  what  the 
world  can  give." 

"I  suppose  you'll  want  to  put  up  the  finest  monument 
for  your  son  that  money  can  buy,"  Brian  went  on,  as 
though  he  had  wandered  from  his  subject.  But  I — know 
ing  him,  and  his  slow,  dreamy  way  of  getting  to  his  goal — 
knew  that  he  was  not  astray.  He  was  following  some  star 
which  we  hadn't  yet  seen. 

"We've  had  no  time  to  think  of  a  monument,"  said  Mr. 
Beckett,  with  a  choke  in  his  voice.  "Of  course  we  would 
wish  it,  if  it  could  be  done.  But  Jim  lies  on  German  soil. 
We  can't  mark  the  place " 

"It  doesn't  much  matter — to  him — where  his  body 
lies,"  Brian  went  on.  "He  is  not  in  German  soil,  or  in  No 
Man's  Land.  Wouldn't  he  like  to  have  a  monument  in 
Everyman  s  Land  ?" 

"What  do  you  mean?"  breathed  the  little  old  lady. 
She  realized  now  that  blind  Brian  wasn't  speaking  idly. 

"Well,  you  see,  France  and  Belgium  together  will  be 
Everyman's  Land  after  the  war,  won't  they?"  Brian  said. 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  49 

"Every  man  who  wants  the  world's  true  peace  has  fought 
in  France  and  Belgium,  if  he  could  fight.  Every  man  who 
has  fought,  and  every  man  who  wished  to  fight  but 
couldn't,  will  want  to  see  those  lands  that  have  been 
martyred  and  burned,  when  they  have  risen  like  the 
Phoenix  out  of  their  own  ashes.  That's  why  I  call  France 
and  Belgium  Everyman's  Land.  You  say  your  Jim 
spent  some  of  his  happiest  days  there,  and  now  he's  given 
his  life  for  the  land  he  loved.  Wouldn't  you  feel  as  if  he 
went  with  you,  if  you  made  a  pilgrimage  from  town  to  town 
he  knew  in  their  days  of  beauty — if  you  travelled  and 
studied  some  scheme  for  helping  to  make  each  one  beauti 
ful  again  after  the  war?  If  you  did  this  in  his  name  and 
his  honour,  could  he  have  a  better  memorial?" 

"I  guess  God  has  let  Jim  speak  through  your  lips,  and 
tell  us  his  wish,"  said  Mr.  Beckett.  "What  do  you  think, 
Jenny?" 

g?"I  think  what  you  think,"  she  echoed.  "It's  right  the 
word  should  come  to  us  from  the  brother  of  Jim's  love." 


CHAPTER  VI 

THAT  is  the  story,  Padre,  as  far  as  it  has  gone. 
No  sign  from  you,  no  look  in  your  eyes,  could 
show  me  myself  in  a  meaner  light  than  shines 
from  the  mirror  of  my  conscience.     If  Jim  hadn't  loved 
me,  it  would  be  less  shameful  to  trade  on  the  trust  of 
these  kind  people.     I  see  that  clearly!    And  I  see  how 
hateful  it  is  to  make  Brian  an  innocent  partner  in  the 
fraud. 

I'm  taking  advantage  of  one  man  who  is  dead,  and 
another  who  is  blind.  And  it  is  as  though  I  were  "  betting 
on  a  certainty,"  because  there's  nobody  alive  who  can  come 
forward  to  tell  the  Becketts  or  Brian  what  I  am.  I'm  safe, 
brutally  safe ! 

You'll  see  from  what  I  have  written  how  Brian  turned 
the  scales.  The  plan  he  proposed  developed  in  the  Beck 
etts'  minds  with  a  quickness  that  could  happen  only  with 
Americans — and  millionaires.  Father  Beckett  sees  and 
does  things  on  the  grand  scale.  Perhaps  that's  the  secret 
of  his  success.  He  was  a  miner  once,  he  has  told  Brian  arid 
me.  Mrs.  Beckett  was  a  district  school  teacher  in  the  Far 
West,  where  his  fortune  began.  They  married  while  he  was 
still  a  poor  man.  But  that's  by  the  way!  I  want  to  tell 
you  now  of  his  present,  not  of  his  past:  and  the  working 
out  of  our  future  from  Brian's  suggestion.  Ten  minutes 
after  the  planting  of  the  seed  a  tree  had  grown  up,  and  was 

50 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  51 

P 
putting  forth  leaves  and  blossoms.     Soon  there  will  be 

fruit.  And  it  will  come  into  existence  ripe  !  I  suppose 
Americans  are  like  that.  They  manage  their  affairs  with 
mental  intensive  culture. 

The  Becketts  are  prepared  to  love  me  for  Jim's  sake; 
but  Brian  they  worship  as  a  supernatural  being.  Mr. 
Beckett  says  he's  saved  them  from  themselves,  and  given 
them  an  incentive  to  live.  It  was  only  yesterday  that  they 
answered  my  S.  O.  S.  call.  Now,  the  immediate  future  is 
settled,  for  the  four  of  us;  settled  for  us  together. 

Father  Beckett  is  asking  leave  to  travel  en  automobile 
through  the  liberated  lands.  In  each  town  and  village 
Jim's  parents  will  decide  on  some  work  of  charity  or  re 
construction  in  his  memory,  above  all  in  places  he  knew 
and  loved.  They  can  identify  these  by  the  letters  he 
wrote  home  from  France  before  the  war.  His  mother  has 
kept  every  one.  Through  a  presentiment  of  his  death,  or 
because  she  couldn't  part  from  them,  she  has  brought 
along  a  budget  of  Jim's  letters  from  America.  She  carries 
them  about  in  a  little  morocco  hand-bag,  as  other  women 
carry  their  jewels. 

The  thought  of  Brian's  plan  is  for  the  two  old  people  like 
an  infusion  of  blood  in  emptied  veins.  They  say  that  they 
would  never  have  thought  of  it  themselves,  and  if  they  had, 
they  would  not  have  ventured  to  attempt  it  alone,  ignorant 
of  French  as  they  are.  But  this  is  their  generous  way  of 
making  us  feel  indispensable !  They  tell  us  we  are  needed 
to  "see  them  through";  that  without  our  help  and  ad 
vice  they  would  be  lost.  Every  word  of  kindness  is  a 
new  stab  for  me.  Shall  I  grow  callous  as  time  goes  on,  and 
accept  everything  as  though  I  really  were  what  they  call 


52  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

me — their  "daughter"?  Or — I  begin  to  think  of  another 
alternative.  I'll  turn  to  it  if  I  grow  desperate. 

The  bright  spot  in  my  darkness  is  the  joyful  change  in 
the  Becketts.  They  feel  that  they've  regained  their  son; 
that  Jim  will  be  with  them  on  then*  journey,  and  that 
they've  a  rendezvous  with  him  at  "his  chateau,"  when 
they  reach  the  journey's  end.  They  owe  this  happiness 
not  to  me,  but  to  Brian.  As  for  him,  he  has  the  air  of 
calm  content  that  used  to  enfold  him  when  he  packed  his 
easel  and  knapsack  for  a  tramp.  Blindness  isn't  blindness 
for  Brian.  It's  only  another  kind  of  sight. 

"I  shan't  see  the  wreck  and  misery  you  others  will  have 
to  see,"  he  says.  "Horrors  don't  exist  any  more  for  my 
eyes.  I  shall  see  the  country  in  all  its  beauty  as  it  was 
before  the  war.  And  who  knows  but  I  shall  find  my  dog? " 
(Brian  lost  the  most  wonderful  dog  in  the  world  when  he 
was  wounded.)  He  is  always  hoping  to  find  it  again ! 

He  doesn't  feel  that  he  accepts  charity  from  the  Beck 
etts.  He  believes,  with  a  kind  of  modest  pride,  that  we're 
really  indispensable.  Afterward — when  the  tour  is  over — 
he  thinks  that  "some  other  scheme  will  open."  I  think  so 
too.  The  Becketts  will  propose  it,  to  keep  MS  with  them. 
They  will  urge  and  argue,  little  dreaming  how  I  drew  them, 
with  a  grappling-hook  resolve  to  become  a  barnacle  on 
their  ship! 

To-morrow  we  move  to  the  Ritz.  The  Becketts  insist. 
They  want  us  near  them  for  "consultations"!  This 
morning  the  formal  request  was  made  to  the  French 
authorities,  and  sent  to  headquarters.  On  the  fourth 
day  the  answer  will  come,  and  there's  little  doubt  it  will 
be  "yes."  j 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  53 

yt»<-- 

Can  I  bear  to  go  on  deceiving  Jim  Beckett's  father  and 
mother,  or — shall  I  take  the  other  alternative?  I  must 
decide  to-night. 

Since  I  wrote  that  last  sentence  I  have  been  out,  alone 
— to  decide.  Padre,  it  was  in  my  mind  never  to  come 
back. 

I  walked  a  long,  long  way,  to  the  Champs-Ely  sees.  I  was 
very  tired,  and  I  sat  down — almost  dropped  down — on  a 
seat  under  the  high  canopy  of  chestnut  trees.  I  could  not 
think,  but  I  had  a  sense  of  expectation  as  if  I  were  waiting 
for  somebody  who  would  tell  me  what  to  do.  Paris  in  the 
autumn  twilight  was  a  dream  of  beauty.  Suddenly  the 
dream  seemed  to  open,  and  draw  me  in.  Some  one  far 
"^way,  whom  I  had  known  and  loved,  was  dreaming  me  ! 
What  I  should  decide  about  the  future,  depended  no  longer 
on  myself,  but  upon  the  dreamer.  I  didn't  know  who  he 
was;  but  I  knew  I  should  learn  by  and  by.  It  was  he  who 
would  come  walking  along  the  road  of  his  own  dream,  and 
take  the  vacant  place  by  me  on  the  seat. 

Being  in  the  dream,  I  didn't  belong  to  the  wonderful^ 
war-time  Paris  which  was  rushing  and  roaring  around  me. 
Military  motors,  and  huge  camions  and  ambulances  were 
tearing  up  and  down,  over  the  gray-satin  surface  of  as 
phalt  which  used  to  be  sacred  to  private  autos  and  gay  lit 
tle  taxis  bound  for  theatres  and  operas  and  balls.  For 
every  girl,  or  woman,  or  child,  who  passed,  there  were  at 
least  ten  soldiers :  French  soldiers  in  bleu  horizon,  Serbians 
in  gray,  Britishers  and  a  sprinkling  of  Americans  in  khaki. 
There  was  an  undertone  of  music — a  tune  in  the  making — 
in  the  tramp,  tramp,  of  the  soldiers'  feet,  the  rumble  and 


54  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

whirr  of  the  cars-of-war,  the  voices  of  women,  the  laughing 
cries  of  children. 

I  thought  how  simple  it  would  be,  to  spring  up  and  throw 
myself  under  one  of  the  huge,  rushing  camions:  how  easily 
the  thing  might  be  taken  for  an  accident  if  I  stage-man 
aged  it  well.  The  Becketts  would  be  angels  to  Brian 
when  I  was  gone!  But  the  dreamer  of  the  dream  would 
not  let  me  stir  hand  or  foot.  He  put  a  spell  of  stillness  upon 
me;  he  shut  me  up  in  a  transparent  crystal  box,  while  out 
side  all  the  world  moved  about  its  own  affairs. 

The  mauve  light  of  Paris  nights  filtered  up  from  the 
gleaming  asphalt,  as  if  through  a  roof  of  clouded  glass  over 
a  subterranean  ballroom  lit  with  blue  and  purple  lanterns. 
Street  lamps,  darkly  shaded  for  air-raids,  trailed  their  white 
lights  downward,  long  and  straight,  like  first-communion 
veils.  Distant  trees  and  shrubs  and  statues  began  to 
retreat  into  the  dusk,  as  if  withdrawing  from  the  sight  of 
fevered  human-folk  to  rest.  Violet  shadows  rose  in  a  tide, 
and  poured  through  the  gold-green  tunnel  of  chestnut  trees, 
as  sea-water  pours  into  a  cave.  And  the  shadow-sea  had  a 
voice  like  the  whisper  of  waves.  It  said,  "The  dream  is 
Jim  Wyndham's  dream."  I  felt  him  near  me — still  in  the 
dream.  The  one  I  had  waited  for  had  come. 

I  was  free  to  move.    The  transparent  box  was  broken. 

What  the  meaning  of  my  impression  was  I  don't  know. 
But  it  must  have  a  meaning,  it  was  so  strong  and  real.  It 
has  made  me  change  my  mind  about — the  other  alterna 
tive.  I  want  to  live,  and  find  my  way  back  into  that 
dream. 


CHAPTER  VH 

PADRE,  you  were  right.     My  greatest  comfort,  as 
of  old,  is  in  turning  to  you. 
I  think  you  had  a  glimpse  of  the  future  when 
you  left  me  that  last  message:  "Write  to  me,  in  the  old 
way,  just  as  if  I  were  alive  and  had  gone  on  a  long  journey." 

When  I  lock  my  door,  and  get  out  this  journal,  it  seems 
as  if  a  second  door — a  door  in  the  wall — opened,  to  show 
you  smiling  the  good  smile  which  made  your  face  different 
from  any  other.  I  don't  deserve  the  smile.  Did  I  ever 
deserve  it?  Yet  you  gave  it  even  when  I  was  at  my  worst. 
Now  it  seems  to  say,  "  In  spite  of  all,  I  won't  turn  my  back 
on  you.  I  haven't  given  you  up." 

When  I  first  began  to  write  in  this  book  (the  purple- 
covered  journal  which  was  your  last  present  to  me),  I 
meant  just  to  relieve  my  heart  by  putting  on  paper,  as  if 
for  you,  the  story  of  my  wickedness.  Now  the  story  is 
told,  I  can't  stop.  I  can't  shut  the  door  in  the  wall!  I 
shall  go  on,  and  on.  I  shall  tell  you  all  that  happens,  all 
I  feel,  and  see,  and  think.  That  must  have  been  what  you 
meant  me  to  do. 

When  Brian  and  I  were  away  from  home  a  million  years 
ago,  before  the  war,  we  wrote  you  every  day,  if  only  a  few 
paragraphs,  and  posted  our  letters  at  the  end  of  a  week. 
You  said  those  letters  were  your  "magic  carpet,"  on  which 
you  travelled  with  us.  Poor  Padre,  you'd  no  time  nor 


56  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

money  for  other  travelling!  You  never  saw  France,  till 
the  war  called  you.  And  after  a  few  bleak  months,  that 
other  great  call  came.  I  shall  write  to  you  about  France, 
and  about  myself,  as  I  should  have  written  if  you  were  back 
at  home. 

First — about  myself !  A  few  pages  ago  I  said  that  there 
was  no  one  alive  who  could  prove  me  a  liar,  to  the  Becketts 
or  Brian:  that  I  was  " safe— brutally  safe."  Well,  I  was 
mistaken.  I  am  not  safe.  But  I  will  go  back  to  our  start. 

Everyone  warned  the  Becketts  that  they  would  get  no 
automobile,  no  essence,  and  no  chauffeur.  Yet  they  got 
all  three,  as  magically  as  Cinderella  got  her  coach  and  four. 
The  French  authorities  played  fairy  godmother,  and  waved 
a  wand .  Why  not,  when  in  return  so  much  was  to  be  done 
for  France? 

The  wand  gave  a  permit  for  the  whole  front  (counting  in 
the  American  front!)  from  Lorraine  to  Flanders.  It  pro 
duced  a  big  gray  car,  and  a  French  soldier  to  drive  it.  The 
soldier  has  only  one  leg:  but  he  can  do  more  with  that  one 
than  most  men  with  two.  Thus  we  set  forth  on  the  jour 
ney  Brian  planned,  the  Becketts  so  grateful — poor  darlings 
— for  our  company,  that  it  was  hard  to  realize  that  I  didn't 
belong. 

It  was  a  queer  thought  that  we  should  be  taking  the  road 
to  Germany — we,  of  all  people :  yet  every  road  that  leads 
east  from  Paris  leads  to  Germany.  And  it  was  a  wonder 
ful  thought,  that  we  should  be  going  to  the  Marne. 

Surely  generations  must  pass  before  that  name  can  be 
heard,  even  by  children,  without  a  thrill!  We  said  it  over 
and  over  in  the  car:  "The  Marne — the  Marne!  We 
shall  see  the  Marne,  this  autumn  of  1917." 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  57 

Meanwhile  the  road  was  a  dream-road.  It  had  the  un 
natural  quietness  of  dreams.  In  days  of  peace  it  would 
have  been  choked  with  country  carts  bringing  food  to  fill 
the  wide-open  mouth  of  Paris.  Now,  the  way  to  the 
capital  was  silent  and  empty,  save  for  gray  military  motors 
and  lumbering  army  camions.  The  cheap  bowling  alleys 
and  jerry-built  restaurants  of  the  suburbs  seemed  under  a 
spell  of  sleep.  There  were  no  men  anywhere,  except  the 
very  old,  and  boys  of  the  "class"  of  next  year.  Women 
swept  out  the  gloomy  shops:  women  drove  omnibuses: 
women  hawked  the  morning  papers.  Outside  Paris  we 
were  stopped  by  soldiers,  appearing  from  sentry-boxes :  our 
papers  were  scanned;  almost  reluctantly  we  were  allowed 
to  pass  on,  to  the  Secret  Region  of  Crucifix  Corner,  which 
spying  eyes  must  not  see — the  region  of  aeroplane  hangars, 
endless  hangars,  lost  among  trees,  and  melting  dimly  into 
a  dim  horizon,  their  low,  rounded  roofs  "camouflaged" 
in  a  confusion  of  splodged  colours. 

There  was  so  much  to  see — so  much  which  was  abnormal, 
and  belonged  to  war — that  we  might  have  passed  without 
glancing  at  a  line  of  blue  water,  parallel  with  our  road  at  a 
little  distance,  had  not  Brian  said,  "Have  we  come  in  sight 
of  the  Ourcq?  We  ought  to  be  near  it  now.  Don't  you 
know,  the  men  of  the  Marne  say  the  men  of  the  Ourcq  did 
more  than  they  to  save  Paris?" 

The  Becketts  had  hardly  heard  of  the  Ourcq.  As  for 
me,  I'd  forgotten  that  part  in  the  drama  of  September, 
1914.  I  knew  that  there  was  an  Ourcq — a  canal,  or  a 
river,  or  both,  with  a  bit  of  Paris  sticking  to  its  banks: 
knew  it  vaguely,  as  one  knows  and  forgets  that  one's 
friends'  faces  have  profiles.  But  Brian's  words  brought 


58  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

back  the  whole  story  to  my  mind  in  a  flash.  I  remem 
bered  how  Von  Kluck  was  trapped  like  a  rat,  in  the  couloir 
of  the  Ourcq,  by  the  genius  of  Gallieni,  and  the  glorious 
cooperation  of  General  Manoury  and  the  dear  British 
"  contempt ibles"  under  General  French. 

It  was  a  desperate  adventure  that — to  try  and  take  the 
Germans  in  the  flank;  and  Gallieni's  advisers  told  him 
there  were  not  soldiers  enough  in  his  command  to  do  it. 
"Then  we'll  do  it  with  sailors!"  he  said.  "But,"  urged 
an  admiral,  "my  sailors  are  not  trained  to  march." 

"They  will  march  without  being  trained,"  said  the 
defender  of  the  capital.  "I've  been  in  China  and  Mada 
gascar,  I  know  what  sailors  can  do  on  land." 

"Even  so,  there  will  not  be  enough  men,"  answered  the 
pessimists. 

"We'll  fill  the  gaps  with  the  police,"  said  the  general, 
inspired  perhaps  by  Sainte-Genevieve. 

So  the  deed  was  dared;  and  in  a  panic  at  sight  of  the 
mysteriously  arriving  troops,  Von  Kluck  retreated  from 
the  Ourcq  to  the  Aisne.  It  was  when  he  heard  how  the 
trick  had  been  played  and  won  by  sheer  bravado,  that  he 
cried  out  in  rage,  "How  could  I  count  on  such  a  coup  ? 
Not  another  military  governor  in  a  hundred  would  have 
risked  throwing  his  whole  force  sixty  kilometres  from  its 
base.  How  should  I  guess  what  a  dare-devil  fool  Gallieni 
would  turn  out?  But  if  Trochu,  in  '70,  had  been  the  same 
kind  of  a  fool,  we  should  never  have  got  Paris ! " 

Half  the  ghosts  in  history  seemed  to  haunt  this  Route  de 
Strasbourg,  and  to  meet  us  as  we  passed.  You  know  how 
you  see  the  characters  in  a  moving-picture  play,  and  be 
hind  them  the  "fade  ins"  that  show  their  life  history, 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  59 

/isions  that  change  on  the  screen  like  patterns  in  a  kaleido 
scope?  So  on  this  meadow-bordered  road,  peaceful  in  the 
autumn  sunlight,  we  saw  with  om  minds'  eyes  the  soldiers 
of  1914:  behind  them  the  soldiers  of  1870:  farther  in  the 
background  Napoleon  the  Great  with  his  men:  and  fading 
into  the  distance,  processions  of  kings  who  had  marched 
along  the  Marne,  since  the  day  Sain  te- Gene  vie  ve  ordered 
the  gates  of  Paris  to  be  shut  in  the  face  of  Attila. 

Such  a  gay,  gold-sequined  blue-green  ribbon  of  a  river  it 
looked!  Almost  impudent  in  gaiety,  as  if  it  wished  to 
forget  and  be  happy.  But  souls  and  rivers  never  really 
forget.  When  they  know  what  the  Marne  knows,  they  are 
gay  only  on  the  surface! 

It  was  at  Meaux  where  we  had  our  first  close  meeting 
with  the  Marne:  Meaux,  the  city  nearest  Paris  "on  the 
Marne  front,"  where  the  Germans  came:  and  even  after 
three  years  you  can  still  see  on  the  left  bank  of  the  river 
traces  of  trench  — shallow,  pathetic  holes  dug  in  wild 
haste.  We  might  have  missed  them,  we  creatures  with 
mere  eyes,  if  Brian  hadn't  asked,  "Can't  you  see  the 
trenches?"  Then  we  saw  them,  of  course,  half  lost  under 
rank  grass,  like  dents  in  a  green  velvet  cushion  made  by 
a  sleeper  who  has  long  ago  waked  and  walked  away. 

From  a  distance  the  glistening  gray  roofs  of  Meaux  were 
like  a  vast  crowd  of  dark- winged  doves;  but  as  we  ran 
into  the  town  it  opened  out  into  dignified  importance,  able 
to  live  up  to  its  thousand  years  of  history.  There  was  no 
work  for  the  Becketts  there,  we  thought,  for  the  Germans 
had  time  to  do  little  material  harm  to  Meaux  in  1914:  and 
at  first  sight  there  seemed  to  be  no  need  of  alms.  But 
Jim  had  loved  Meaux.  His  mother  took  from  her  blue 


60  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

morocco  bag  his  letter  describing  the  place,  mentioning 
how  he  had  met  the  bishop  through  a  French  friend. 

"Do  you  think,"  she  asked  me  timidly,  "we  might  call 
on  the  bishop?  Who  knows  but  he  remembers  our 
Jimmy?" 

"He's  a  famous  bishop,"  said  Brian.  "I've  heard  poilus 
from  Meaux  tell  stories  of  how  the  Germans  were  forced  to 
respect  him,  he  was  so  brave  and  fine.  He  took  the  chil 
dren  of  the  town  under  his  protection,  and  no  harm  came  to 
one  of  them.  There  were  postcard  photographs  going 
round  early  in  the  war,  of  the  bishop  surrounded  by  boys 
and  girls — like  a  benevolent  Pied  Piper.  It's  kindness  he's 
famous  for,  as  well  as  courage,  so  I'm  sure  we  may  call." 

Near  the  beautiful  old  cathedral  we  passed  a  priest,  and 
asked  him  where  to  find  the  bishop's  house.  "You  need 
not  go  so  far;  here  he  comes,"  was  the  answer.  We  looked 
over  our  shoulders,  almost  guiltily,  and  there  indeed  he 
was.  He  had  been  in  the  cathedral  with  two  French  offi 
cers,  and  in  another  instant  the  trio  would  have  turned  a 
corner.  Our  look  and  the  priest's  gesture  told  the  bishop 
that  we  were  speaking  of  him.  He  paused,  and  Mr.  Beck 
ett  jumped  out  of  the  stopped  car,  agile  as  a  boy  in  his  ex 
citement. 

"Oh,  I  forgot,  I  can't  talk  French!  Mary,  you  must 
see  me  through!"  he  pleaded. 

I  hurried  to  the  rescue,  and  together  we  walked  up  to  the 
bishop.  Off  came  Mr.  Beckett's  hat;  and  both  officers 
saluted  us.  One  was  a  general,  the  other  a  colonel. 

If  I'd  had  time  to  rehearse,  I  might  have  done  myself 
some  credit.  As  it  was,  I  stammered  out  some  sort  of 
emanation  and  introduced  Jim's  father. 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  61 

"I  remember  young  Monsieur  Beckett,"  the  bishop 
said.  "He  was  not  one  to  be  forgotten!  Besides,  he  was 
generous  to  Meaux.  He  left  a  noble  present  for  our  poor. 
And  now,  you  say,  he  has  given  his  life  for  France?  What 
is  there  I  can  do  to  prove  our  gratitude?  You  have  come 
to  Meaux  because  of  his  letters?  Wait  a  few  minutes,  till 
these  brave  messieurs  have  gone,  and  I  myself  will  show 
you  the  cathedral.  Oh,  you  need  not  fear!  It  will  be  a 
pleasure." 

He  was  as  good  as  his  word,  and  better.  Not  only  did 
he  show  the  splendid  Gothic  cathedral,  pride  of  the  "fair 
Ile-de-France,"  but  the  bishop's  house  as  well.  Bossuet 
had  lived  there,  the  most  famous  bishop  Meaux  had  in  the 
past.  It  was  dramatic  to  enter  his  study,  guided  by  the 
most  famous  bishop  of  the  present;  to  see  in  such  company 
the  room  where  Bossuet  penned  his  denunciation  of  the 
Protestants,  and  then  the  long  avenue  of  yews  where  he 
used  to  walk  in  search  of  inspiration.  We  saw  his  tomb, 
too — in  the  cathedral  (yes,  I  believe  Brian  saw  it  more 
clearly  than  we!),  one  of  those  grand  tombs  they  gave 
prelates  in  the  days  of  Louis  XIV:  and  when  the  Beck- 
etts  had  followed  Jim's  example  in  generosity,  we  bade 
adieu  to  the — oh,  ever  so  much  kindlier  heir  of  the  great 
controversialist.  I'm  afraid,  to  tell  the  truth,  the  little 
old  lady  cared  more  to  know  that  her  Jim's  favourite 
cheese — Brie — was  made  in  Meaux,  than  anything  else  in 
the  town's  history.  Nevertheless,  she  listened  with  a 
charmed  air  to  Brian's  story  of  Meaux's  great  romance — 
as  she  listens  to  all  Brian's  stories.  It  was  you,  Padre, 
who  told  it  to  Brian,  and  to  me,  one  winter  night  when 
we'd  been  reading  about  Gaston,  de  Foix,  "Gaston  le 


62  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

Bel."  Our  talk  of  his  exploits  brought  us  to  Meaux,  at  the 
time  of  the  Jacquerie,  in  the  twelfth  century.  The  com 
mon  people  had  revolted  against  the  nobles  who  oppressed 
them,  and  all  the  Ile-de-France — adorable  name ! — seethed 
with  civil  war.  In  Meaux  was  the  Duchess  of  Orleans, 
with  three  hundred  great  ladies,  most  of  them  beautiful 
and  young.  The  peasants  besieged  the  Duchess  there, 
and  she  and  her  lovely  companions  were  put  to  sore  straits, 
when  suddenly  arrived  brave  Gaston  to  save  them.  I 
don't  quite  know  why  he  took  the  trouble  to  come  so  far, 
from  his  hill-castle  near  the  Spanish  frontier,  but  most 
likely  he  loved  one  of  the  shut-up  ladies.  Or  perhaps  it 
was  simply  for  love  of  all  womanhood,  since  Gaston  was  so 
chivalrous  that  Froissart  said,  "I  never  saw  one  like  him 
of  personage,  nor  of  so  fair  form,  nor  so  well  made." 

From  Meaux  our  road  (we  were  going  to  make  Nancy 
our  centre  and  stopping  place)  followed  the  windings  of 
the  green  ribbon  Marne  to  Chateau-Thierry,  on  the  river's 
right  bank.  There's  a  rather  thrilling  ruin,  that  gave  the 
town  its  name,  and  dominates  it  still — the  ruin  of  a  castle 
which  Charles  Martel  built  for  a  young  King  Thierry.  The 
legend  says  that  this  boy  differed  from  the  wicked  kings 
Thierry,  sons  and  grandsons  of  the  Frankish  Clovis;  that  he 
wanted  to  be  good,  but  "Fate"  would  not  let  him.  Per- 
haps  it's  a  judgment  on  those  terrible  Thierry  kings,  who 
left  to  their  enemies  only  the  earth  round  their  habitations 
— "because  it  couldn't  be  carried  away" — that  the 
Germans  have  left  ruins  in  Ch&teau-Thierry  more  cruel 
than  those  of  the  crumbling  castle.  In  seven  September 
days  they  added  more  monuments  historiques  than  a 
thousand  years  had  given  the  ancient  Marne  city. 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  63 

Jim  Beckett  had  written  his  mother  all  about  the  town, 
and  sent  postcard  pictures  of  its  pride,  the  fortress-like, 
fifteenth-century  church  with  a  vast  tower  set  upon  a 
height.  He  liked  Chateau-Thierry  because  Jean  de  la 
Fontaine  was  born  there,  and  called  it  "a  peaceful-looking 
place,  just  right  for  the  dear  fable-maker,  who  was  so 
child-like  and  sweet-natured,  that  he  deserved  always  to 
be  happy,  instead  of  for  ever  in  somebody's  debt."  A 
soldier  having  seen  the  wasted  country  at  the  front,  might 
still  describe  Chateau-Thierry  as  a  "peaceful-looking 
place."  But  it  was  the  first  glimpse  the  Becketts  had  had 
of  war's  abominable  destruction.  I  took  up  nursing  in 
the  south  of  France  before  the  Zeppelins  made  much  visi 
ble  impression  on  London;  and  as  I  volunteered  for  a 
"contagious"  hospital,  I've  lived  an  isolated  life  far  from 
all  horrors  save  those  in  my  own  ward,  and  the  few  I  saw 
when  I  went  to  nurse  Brian.  Perhaps  it  was  well  for  us 
to  begin  with  Chateau-Thierry,  whose  gaping  wounds  are 
not  mortal,  and  to  miss  tragic  Varreddes.  Had  Sermaize- 
les-Bains,  which  burst  upon  us  later,  been  our  first  experi 
ence,  the  shock  might  have  been  too  great  for  Mrs.  Beck 
ett.  As  it  was,  we  worked  slowly  to  the  climax.  Yet  even 
so,  we  travelled  on  with  a  hideous  mirage  of  broken  homes, 
of  intimacies  brutally  laid  bare,  floating  between  the  land 
scape  and  our  eyes.  We  could  not  get  rid  of  this  mirage, 
could  not  brush  it  away,  though  the  country  was  friendly 
and  fair  of  face  as  a  child  playing  in  a  waterside  meadow. 
The  crudely  new  bridges  that  crossed  the  Marne  were  the 
only  open  confessions  of  what  the  river  had  suffered.  But 
the  Marne  spirit  had  known  wars  enough  to  learn  "how 
sweet  it  is  to  live,  forgetting."  With  her  bits  of  villages 


64  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

scattered  like  strewn  flowers  on  her  green  flood,  she  floats 
in  a  dream  of  her  adventurous  past  and  the  glorious  future 
which  she  has  helped  to  win  for  France. 

It  was  hard  to  realize  that  the  tiny  island  villages  and 
hamlets  on  the  level  shores  had  seen  the  Germans  come 
and  go;  that  under  the  gray  roofs — furry-soft  as  the  backs 
of  Maltese  cats — hearts  had  beaten  in  agony  of  fear;  that 
along  the  white  road,  with  its  double  row  of  straight  trees 
like  an  endless  army  on  parade,  weeping  fugitives  had 
fled. 

We  were  not  aiming  to  reach  Nancy  that  night,  so  we 
paused  at  Epernay.  The  enemy  behaved  better  there 
than  in  most  Marne  towns,  perhaps  because  Wagner  once 
lived  in  it,  or,  more  likely,  under  the  soothing  influence  of 
Epernay's  champagne,  which  has  warmed  the  cockles  of 
men's  hearts  since  a  bishop  of  the  ninth  century  made  it 
famous  by  his  praise.  Nevertheless,  there  are  ruins  to 
see,  for  the  town  was  bombarded  by  the  Germans  after 
they  were  turned  out.  All  the  quarter  of  the  rich  was  laid 
waste :  and  the  vast  "  Fabrique  de  Champagne  "  of  Mercier, 
with  its  ornamental  frieze  of  city  names,  is  silent  to  this 
day,  its  proud  fagade  of  windows  broken.  Not  a  big 
building  of  the  town,  not  a  neighbouring  chateau  of  a 
"Champagne  baron"  has  a  whole  window-pane  visible, 
though  three  years  have  rolled  on  since  the  cannonading 
did  its  work!  Nowadays  glass  is  as  dear  as  diamonds  in 
France,  and  harder  to  get. 

Outside  Champagnopolis,  in  the  wide  wooden  village  of 
hospital  huts,  a  doctor  told  us  a  war  ghost  story.  One 
night  the  Germans  made  a  great  haul  of  champagne,  of  a 
good  year,  in  a  castle  near  by.  They  had  knocked  off 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  65 

the  heads  of  many  bottles,  naming  each  for  a  French 
general  of  yesterday  or  to-day,  when  some  officer  who  knew 
more  history  than  the  rest  remembered  that  Henri  IV  had 
taken  Epernay  in  1592.  He  named  his  bottle  for  Henri 
de  Navarre,  and  harangued  his  comrades  on  the  superiority 
of  Wilhelm  von  Hohenzollern.  As  the  speechmaker 
cracked  the  neck  with  his  sword,  the  bottle  burst  in  a 
thousand  pieces,  drenching  everyone  with  wine.  A  bit 
of  glass  struck  the  electric  lamp  over  the  table,  and  out 
went  the  light.  For  an  instant  the  room  was  black. 
Then  a  white  ray  flickered  on  the  wall,  as  if  thrown  through 
the  window  by  a  searchlight.  Out  of  its  glimmer  stepped 
a  man,  with  a  long,  laughing  face  and  a  pointed  beard. 
Round  his  neck  was  a  high  ruff.  He  wore  a  doublet  of 
velvet,  and  shining  silk  hose.  In  his  hand  was  a  silver 
goblet,  frothing  over  the  top  with  champagne.  "He 
drinks  best  who  drinks  last!"  cried  he  in  French,  and 
flung  the  goblet  at  the  face  of  him  who  named  the  bottle. 
At  the  same  second  there  was  a  great  explosion,  and  only 
one  soldier  escaped;  he  who  told  the  story. 

Think,  Padre,  it  was  near  Chalons  that  Attila  was 
defeated,  and  forced  to  fly  from  France  for  ever!  I  ought 
to  say,  Attila  the  first,  since  the  self-named  Attila  H 
hasn't  yet  been  beaten  back  beyond  the  Rhine. 

We — you,  and  Brian  and  I — used  to  have  excited  argu 
ments  about  reincarnation.  You  know  now  which  of  us 
was  right!  But  I  cling  to  the  theory  of  the  spiral,  in 
evolution  of  the  soul — the  soul  of  a  man  or  the  soul  of  the 
world.  It  satisfies  my  sense  of  justice  and  my  reason  both, 
to  believe  that  we  must  progress,  being  made  for  progres 
sion;  but  that  we  evolve  upward  slowly,  with  a  spiral 


66  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

motion  which  brings  us  at  certain  periods,  as  we  rise, 
directly  above  the  last  earth-phase  in  our  evolution.  If 
it's  true,  here,  after  nearly  thirteen  centuries,  are  the 
Huns  overrunning  Europe  once  more.  Learned  Huns, 
scientific  Huns,  but  always  Huns,  repeating  history  on  a 
higher  scale,  barbarously  bent  on  pulling  down  the 
liberty  of  the  world  by  the  power  of  brute  force.  Again 
they're  destined  to  be  conquered  as  before,  at  a  far  bigger 
price.  What  will  the  next  turn  of  their  spiral  bring,  I 
wonder?  A  vast  battle  of  intellect,  perhaps,  when  wars  of 
blood  have  been  forgotten.  And  I  wonder,  too,  where  has 
Attila  been,  since  he  was  beaten  in  this  Champagne  coun 
try  of  the  Marne,  and  died  two  years  later  at  his  wedding- 
feast  in  Hungary ! 

Did  he  appear  in  our  world  again,  in  the  form  of  some 
great,  cruel  general  or  king,  or  did  his  soul  rest  until  it 
was  reincarnated  in  the  form  that  claims  his  name  to-day? 

I  could  scarcely  concentrate  upon  Chalons,  though  it's  a 
noble  town,  crowded  with  grand  old  buildings.  My  mind 
was  busily  travelling  back,  back  into  history,  as  Peter 
Ibbetson  travelled  in  his  prison-dreams.  It  didn't  stop 
on  its  way  to  see  the  city  capitulate  to  the  Allies  in  1814, 
just  one  hundred  years  before  the  great  new  meaning  came 
into  that  word  "allies."  I  ran  past  the  brave  fifteenth- 
century  days,  when  the  English  used  to  attack  Chalons- 
sur-Marne,  hoping  to  keep  their  hold  on  France.  I 
didn't  even  pause  for  Saint- Bernard,  preaching  the  Crusade 
in  the  gorgeous  presence  of  Louis  VII  and  his  knights. 
It  was  Attila  who  lured  me  down,  down  into  his  century, 
buried  deep  under  the  sands  of  Time.  I  heard  the  ring  of 
George  Meredith's  words:  "Attila,  my  Attila!"  But 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  67 

I  saw  the  wild  warrior  Attila,  fighting  in  Champagne,  not 
the  dead  man  adjured  by  Ildico,  his  bride.  I  saw  him 
"short,  swarthy,  broad-chested,"  in  his  crude  armour,  his 
large  head,  "early  gray,"  lifted  like  a  wolf's  at  bay.  I  saw 
his  fierce,  ugly  face  with  its  snub  nose  and  little,  deep-set 
eyes,  flushed  in  the  fury  of  defeat  as  he  ordered  the  famous 
screen  of  chariots  to  be  piled  up  between  him  and  the 
Romano-Gauls.  I  saw  him  and  his  men  profiting  by  the 
strange  barrier,  and  the  enemy's  exhaustion,  to  escape 
beyond  the  Rhine,  with  eyes  yearning  toward  the  coun 
try  they  were  to  see  no  more. 

History  calls  that  battle  "one  of  the  decisive  battles  of 
the  world,"  yet  it  lasted  only  a  day,  and  engaged  from  a 
hundred  and  seventy-four  thousand  to  three  hundred 
thousand  men.  Oh,  the  spiral  of  battles  has  climbed 
high  since  then ! 

I  think  I  should  have  had  a  presentiment  of  the  war  if 
I'd  lived  at  Chalons,  proud  city  of  twenty -two  bridges  and 
the  Canal  Rhine-Marne.  The  water  on  stormy  days  must 
have  whispered,  "  They  are  coming.  Take  care ! " 

At  Vitry-le-Frangois  there  is  also  that  same  sinister  canal 
which  leads  from  the  Marne  to  the  Rhine,  the  Rhine  to 
the  Marne.  The  name  has  a  wicked  sound  in  these  days — 
Rhine-Marne;  and  at  Vitry-le-Frangois  of  all  places.  The 
men  from  over  the  Rhine  destroyed  as  much  as  they  had 
time  to  destroy  of  the  charming  old  town  planned  by 
Francis  I,  and  named  for  him.  All  the  villages  round 
about  the  new  Huns  broke  to  pieces,  like  the  toy  towns  of 
children :  Revigny ,  sprayed  from  hand  pumps  with  petrol, 
and  burnt  to  the  ground:  Sermaize-les-Bains,  loved  by 
Romans  and  Saracens,  obliterated;  women  drowned  in 


68  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

the  river  by  laughing  German  soldiers,  deep  down  under 
yellow  water-lilies,  which  mark  their  resting  place  to-day: 
everywhere,  through  the  fields  and  forests,  low  wooden 
crosses  in  the  midst  of  little  votive  gardens,  telling  their 
silent  tale. 

Ah,  but  it  is  good  that  Mother  Beckett  saw  Chateau- 
Thierry  first,  or  she  might  have  covered  her  eyes  and 
begged  to  go  back  to  Paris !  Here  all  speaks  of  death  and 
desolation,  save  the  busy  little  hut-villages  of  the 
Quakers.  The  "Friends"  quietly  began  their  labour  of 
love  before  the  Battle  of  the  Marne  was  ended,  and 
they're  "carrying  on"  still.  The  French  translate  them 
affectionately  into  "lesAmis" 

It  was  at  Bar-le-Duc  that  I  met  disaster  face  to  face  in  so 
Strange  a  way  that  it  needs  a  whole  letter  to  tell  you  what 
happened. 


CHAPTER  VIH 

THERE  were  so  many  things  to  see  by  the  way,  and 
so  many  thoughts  to  think  about  them,  that 
Father  Beckett  and  Brian  decided  on  an  all  night 
stop  at  Bar-le-Duc.    The  town  hadn't  had  an  air  raid  for 
weeks,  and  it  looked  a  port  of  peace.     As  well  imagine 
enemy  aeroplanes  over  the  barley-sugar  house  of  the  witch 
in  the  enchanted  forest,  as  over  this  comfortable  home  of 
jam-makers! 

"Jim  always  asked  for  currant  jam  of  Bar-le-Duc  on 
his  birthdays,  ever  since  he  was  a  little,  little  boy,"  Mrs. 
Beckett  remembered  aloud.  "And  even  when  he  was 
grown  up!  But  then,  he  wouldn't  wait  for  birthdays. 
He  wanted  it  every  day  for  breakfast;  and  for  tea  at  those 
grand  New  York  hotels,  where  I  wouldn't  go  without  him, 
any  sooner  than  in  a  lion's  den.  Oh,  it  will  be  nice  to  stay 
at  Bar-le-Duc!  If  there's  been  a  jam  factory  blown  up, 
we'll  help  build  it  again,  to  please  Jim." 

Father  Beckett  was  shrewdly  of  opinion  that  the  jam 
factories  could  take  care  of  themselves,  which  rather  dis 
appointed  his  wife.  She  was  vaguely  disappointed  too,  in 
Bar-le-Duc.  I  think  she  expected  to  smell  a  ravishing 
fragrance  of  Jim's  favourite  confiture  as  we  entered  the 
town.  It  had  been  a  tiring  day  for  her,  with  all  our  stops 
and  sightseeing,  and  she  had  less  appetite  for  history  than 
for  jam.  We  had  passed  through  lovely  country  since 

69 


70  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

Chalons,  decorated  with  beautiful  tall  trees,  high  box 
hedges,  and  distant,  rolling  downs  golden  with  grain  and 
sunlight.  Also,  whenever  our  road  drew  near  the  rail 
way,  we'd  caught  exciting  glimpses  of  long  trains  "camou 
flaged"  in  blurry  greens  and  blues,  to  hide  themselves  from 
aeroplanes.  Nevertheless,  Mother  Beckett  had  begun  to 
droop.  Her  blue  eyes  hardly  brightened  to  interest  when 
Brian  said  we  were  in  the  famous  region  of  the  Meuse, 
part  of  the  Austrian  Empire  in  Charlemagne's  day:  that 
somewhere  hereabout  Wittekind,  the  enslaved  Saxon, 
used  to  work  "on  the  land,"  not  dreaming  of  the  kingly 
house  of  Capet  he  was  to  found  for  France,  and  that 
Bar-le-Duc  itself  would  be  our  starting-point  for  Verdun, 
after  Nancy  and  the  "Lorraine  Front." 

For  her  Bar-le-Duc  had  always  represented  jam,  endless 
jam,  loved  by  Jim,  and  talk  of  the  dukes  of  Bar  brought 
no  thrill  to  Jim's  mother.  She  cared  more  to  see  the  two 
largest  elms  in  France  of  which  Jim  had  written,  than  any 
ruins  of  ducal  dwellings  or  tombs  of  Lorraine  princes,  or 
even  the  house  where  Charles-Edouard  the  Pretender 
lived  for  years. 

Fortunately  there  was  a  decent  hotel,  vaguely  open  in 
the  upper  town  on  the  hill,  with  a  view  over  the  small 
tributary  river  Ornain,  on  which  the  capital  city  of  the 
Meuse  is  built.  One  saw  the  Rhine-Marne  Canal,  too,  and 
the  picturesque  roofs  of  old  fifteenth-century  houses, 
huddled  together  in  lower  Bar-le-Duc,  shut  in  among  the 
vine-draped  valleys  of  Champagne. 

As  we  left  the  car  and  went  into  the  hotel  (I  lingering 
behind  to  help  Brian)  I  noticed  another  car  behind  us. 
It  was  more  like  a  taxi-cab  than  a  brave,  free-born  auto- 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  71 

mobile,  but  it  had  evidently  come  a  long  way,  as  it  was 
covered  with  dust,  and  from  its  rather  ramshackle  roof 
waved  a  Red  Cross  flag. 

In  the  good  days  before  the  war  I  should  have  thought 
it  the  most  natural  thing  on  earth  if  a  procession  of  twenty 
motors  had  trailed  us.  But  war  has  put  an  end  to  joy- 
rides.  Besides,  since  the  outskirts  of  Paris,  we  had  been 
in  the  zone  de  guerre,  constantly  stopped  and  stared  at  by 
sentinels.  The  only  cars  we  passed,  going  east  or  west, 
were  occupied  by  officers,  or  crowded  with  poilus,  there 
fore  the  shabby  little  taxi  became  of  almost  startling  in 
terest.  I  looked  back,  and  saw  that  it  was  slowing  down 
close  behind  our  imposing  auto,  from  which  a  few  small 
pieces  of  luggage  for  the  night  were  being  removed. 

The  Red  Cross  travellers  were  evidently  impatient. 
They  did  not  wait  for  our  chauffeur  to  drive  away.  The 
conductor  of  the  car  jumped  down  and  opened  the  door 
of  his  nondescript  vehicle.  I  made  out,  under  a  thick 
coat  of  dust,  that  he  wore  khaki  of  some  sort,  and  a  cap 
of  military  shape  which  might  be  anything  from  British 
to  Belgian.  He  gave  a  hand  to  a  woman  in  the  car — a 
woman  in  nurse's  dress.  A  thick  veil  covered  her  face, 
but  her  figure  was  girlish.  I  noticed  that  she  was  ex 
tremely  small  and  slim  in  her  long,  dust-dimmed  blue 
cloak :  a  mere  doll  of  a  creature. 

The  man's  back  was  turned  toward  me  as  he  aided  the 
nurse;  but  suddenly  he  flung  a  glance  over  his  shoulder, 
and  stared  straight  at  me,  as  if  he  had  expected  to  find  me 
there. 

He  was  rather  short,  and  too  squarely  built  for  his  age, 
which  might  be  twenty-eight  or  thirty  at  most;  but  his 


72  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

•*. 
great  dark  eyes  were  splendid,  so  gorgeously  brightf  and 

significant  that  they  held  mine  for  a  second  or  two.  This 
vexed  me,  and  I  turned  away  with  as  haughty  an  air  as 
could  be  put  on  at  an  instant's  notice. 

The  hotel  had  no  private  sitting  rooms,  but  the  land 
lord  offered  Mr.  Beckett  for  our  use  a  small  salle  de  lecture, 
adjourning  the  salon  public.  'There  were  folding  doors 
between,  for  a  wonder  with  a  lock  that  worked.  By  the 
time  we'd  bathed,  and  dressed  again,  it  was  the  hour  for 
dinner,  and  Mr.  Beckett  suggested  dining  in  our  own 
"parlour,' '  as  he  called  it. 

The  landlord  himself  brought  a  menu,  which  Mother 
Beckett  accepted  indifferently  up  to  the  entremets  "ome 
lette  au  rhum."  This  she  wished  changed  for  something — 
anything — made  with  Jim's  favourite  jam.  "He  would 
want  us  to  eat  it  at  Bar-le-Duc,"  she  said,  with  her  air  of 
taking  Jim's  nearness  and  interest  in  our  smallest  acts 
for  granted. 

So  "omelette  a  la  confiture  de  gros exiles"  was  ordered; 
and  just  as  we  had  come  to  the  end  of  it  and  our  meal, 
some  one  began  to  play  the  piano  in  the  public  drawing 
room  next  door.  At  the  first  touch,  I  recognized  a 
master  hand.  The  air  was  from  Puccini's  "La  Tosca" — 
third  act,  and  a  moment  later  a  man's  voice  caught  it  up — 
a  voice  of  velvet,  a  voice  of  the  heart — an  Italian  voice. 

We  all  stopped  eating  as  if  we'd  been  struck  by  a  spell. 
We  hardly  breathed.  The  music  had  in  it  the  honey  of  a 
million  flowers  distilled  into  a  crystal  cup.  It  was  so 
sweet  that  it  hurt — hurt  horribly  and  deliciously,  as  only 
Italian  music  can  hurt.  Other  men  sing  with  their 
brains,  with  their  souls,  but  Italians  sing  with  their  blood, 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  73 

their  veins,  the  core  of  their  hearts.  They  are  their  songs, 
as  larks  are. 

The  voice  brought  Jim  to  me,  and  snatched  him  away 
again.  It  set  him  far  off  at  a  hopeless  distance,  across 
steep  purple  chasms  of  dreamland.  It  dragged  my  heart 
out,  and  then  poured  it  full,  full  of  an  unknown  elixir  of 
life  and  love,  which  was  mine,  yet  out  of  reach  forever. 
It  showed  me  my  past  hopes  and  future  sorrows  floating 
on  the  current  of  my  own  blood  like  ships  of  a  secret 
argosy  sailing  through  the  night  to  some  unknown  goal. 
So  now,  when  I  have  told  you  what  it  did  to  me,  you  will 
know  that  voice  was  like  no  voice  I  ever  heard,  except 
Caruso's.  It  was  like  his — astonishingly  like;  and  hardly 
had  the  last  note  of  "Mario's "  song  of  love  and  death  drop 
ped  into  silence  when  the  singer  began  anew  with  one  of 
Caruso's  own  Neapolitan  folk-songs,  "Mama  Mia." 

I  had  forgotten  Mother  and  Father  Beckett — even  Brian 
— everyone  except  my  lost  Jim  Wyndham  and  myself. 
But  suddenly  a  touch  on  my  hand  made  me  start.  The 
little  old  lady's,  small,  cool  fingers  were  on  mine,  "My 
daughter,  what  do  the  words  mean?"  she  asked.  "What 
is  that  boy  saying  to  his  mama?"  Her  eyes  were  blue 
lakes  of  unshed  tears,  for  the  thought  of  her  son  knocked 
at  her  heart. 

"It  isn't  a  boy  who  sings,  dear,"  I  said.  "It's  sup 
posed  to  be  a  young  man  who  tries  to  tell  his  mother 
all  about  his  love,  but  it  is  too  big  for  any  words  he  can 
find.  He  says  she  must  remember  how  she  felt  herself 
when  she  was  in  love,  and  then  she  will  understand  what's 
in  his  heart." 

"Oh,  it's  wonderful!"  she  whispered.     "How  young  it 


74  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

sounds !  Can  it  be  a  man  singing?  It  seems  too  beautiful 
for  anything  but  a  gramophone ! " 

We  broke  out  laughing,  and  the  little  lady  blushed  in 
shame.  "I  mean,  it's  like  one  of  the  great  singers  they 
make  records  of,"  she  explained.  "There,  he's  stopped. 
Oh,  James,  don't  let  him  go!  We  must  hear  him  again. 
Couldn't  you  go  next  door  and  thank  him?  Couldn't  you 
beg  him  to  sing  some  more?  " 

An  Englishman  would  sooner  have  died  a  painful  death 
then  obey;  but,  unabashed,  the  American  husband  flung 
wide  open  the  folding  doors. 

At  the  piano  sat  the  short,  square-built  young  man  of 
the  Red  Cross  taxi.  Leaning  with  both  elbows  on  the 
instrument  stood  the  doll-like  figure  of  his  companion,  the 
girl  in  nurse's  dress.  His  back  and  her  profile  were  turned 
our  way,  but  at  the  sound  of  the  opening  door  he  wheeled 
on  the  stool,  and  both  stared  at  Mr.  Beckett.  Also  they 
stared  past  him  at  me.  Why  at  me,  and  not  the  others, 
I  could  never  have  guessed  then. 

Our  little  room  was  lit  by  red-shaded  candles  on  the 
table,  while  the  salon  adjoining  blazed  with  electricity. 
As  the  doors  opened,  it  was  like  the  effect  of  a  flashlight 
for  a  photograph.  I  saw  that  the  man  and  the  girl  resem 
bled  each  other  in  feature;  nevertheless,  there  was  a 
striking  difference  between  the  two.  It  wasn't  only  that 
he  was  squarely  built,  with  a  short  throat,  and  a  head 
shaped  like  Caruso's,  whereas  she  was  slight,  with  a  small, 
high-held  head  on  a  slender  neck.  The  chief  difference 
lay  in  expression.  The  man — who  now  looked  younger 
than  I  had  thought — had  a  dark,  laughing  face,  gay  and 
defiant  as  a  Neapolitan  street  boy.  It  might  be  evil,  it 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  75 

might  be  good.     The  girl,  who  could  be  no  more  than 
twenty,  was  sullen  in  her  beauty  as  a  thundercloud. 

The  singer  jumped  up,  and  took  a  few  steps  forward, 
while  the  girl  stood  still  and  gloomed. 

"I  hope  I  didn't  disturb  you?"  The  question  was 
asked  of  Mr.  Beckett,  and  thrown  lightly  as  a  shuttle 
cock  over  the  old  man's  head  to  us  in  the  next  room.  It 
was  asked  in  English,  with  a  curiously  winning  accent, 
neither  Italian  nor  Irish,  but  suggesting  both. 

"Disturbed!"  Father  Beckett  explained  that  his 
errand  was  to  beg  for  more  music.  "It's  like  being  at 
the  opera ! "  was  the  best  compliment  he  had  to  give. 

The  young  man  smiled  as  if  a  light  had  been  turned  on 
behind  his  eyes  and  his  brilliant  white  teeth.  "De 
lighted  ! "  he  said.  "I  can't  sing  properly  nowadays — shell 
shock.  I  suppose  I  never  shall  again.  But  I  do  my  best." 

He  sat  down  once  more  at  the  piano,  and  without  asking 
his  audience  to  choose,  began  in  a  low  voice  an  old,  sweet, 
entirely  banal  and  utterly  heart-breaking  ballad  of 
Tosti's,  with  words  by  Christina  Rossetti: 

"When  I  am  dead,  my  dearest, 
Sing  no  sad  songs  for  me, 
Plant  thou  no  roses  at  my  head, 
Nor  shady  cypress  tree. 
Be  the  green  grass  above  me 
With  showers  and  dewdrops  wet, 
And  if  thou  wilt,  remember, 
And  if  thou  wilt,  forget. 

I  shall  not  see  the  shadows, 
I  shall  not  feel  the  rain; 


76  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

I  shall  not  hear  the  nightingale 

Sing  on  as  if  in  pain. 

And  dreaming  through  the  twilight 

That  does  not  rise  nor  set, 

Haply  I  may  remember, 

And  haply  may  forget." 

The  words  were  of  no  great  depth  or  worth,  and  the 
music  was  too  intentionally  heart -wringing  to  be  sincerely 
fine,  yet  sung  by  that  man's  voice,  the  piano  softly  touched 
by  his  hands,  the  poor  old  song  took  my  self-control 
and  shivered  it  like  thin  glass.  Tears  burst  from  Mrs. 
Beckett's  eyes,  and  she  hid  her  face  on  my  shoulder,  sob 
bing  beneath  her  breath:  "Oh,  Jim — Jim!" 

When  the  singer  had  finished  he  looked  at  her,  not  in 
surprise,  but  thoughtfully.  "Perhaps  I  oughtn't  to  have 
sung  that  stuff,  Mr.  Beckett,"  he  said.  "But  your  son 
liked  it  at  St.  Raphael.  We  knew  each  other  there,  very 
well." 

As  he  spoke  his  eyes  turned  to  me,  deliberately,  with 
meaning.  There  was  a  gentle,  charming  smile  on  his 
southern  face,  but  I  knew,  as  if  he  had  told  me  in  so  many 
words,  that  my  secret  was  his. 

Involuntarily  I  glanced  at  the  girl.  She  had  not  moved. 
She  stood  as  before,  her  elbows  on  the  piano,  her  small  face 
propped  between  her  hands.  But  she,  too,  was  looking  at 
me.  She  had  no  expression  whatever.  Her  eyes  told  as 
little  as  two  shut  windows  with  blinds  drawn  down.  The 
fancy  flashed  through  me  that  a  judge  might  look  thus 
waiting  to  hear  the  verdict  of  the  jury  in  a  murder  case. 

"These  two  have  followed  us  on  purpose  to  denounce 
me,"  I  thought.  Yet  it  seemed  a  stupidly  melodramaUc 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  77 

conclusion,  like  the  climax  of  a  chapter  in  an  old-fashioned, 
sentimental  story.  Besides,  the  man — evidently  the 
leader — had  not  at  all  the  face  of  Nemesis.  He  looked  a 
merry,  happy-go-lucky  Italian,  only  a  little  subdued  at  the 
moment  by  the  pathos  of  his  own  nightingale  voice  and 
the  memory  of  Jim  Beckett.  I  was  bewildered.  My 
reason  did  not  know  what  to  make  of  him.  But  my  in 
stinct  warned  me  of  danger. 

Mother  Beckett  dried  her  eyes  with  one  of  her  dainty 
handkerchiefs  which  always  smell  like  lavender  and  grass 
pinks — her  leitmotif  in  perfume.  "You  knew  our  Jim?" 
she  exclaimed,  choking  back  tears.  "Why,  then,  perhaps 
you  and  Mary — Miss  O'Malley— 

What  would  have  happened  if  she  had  finished  her 
sentence  I  shall  never  know,  for  just  then  came  a  crash  as 
if  the  house  were  falling.  Window-glass  shivered.  The 
hotel  shook  as  though  in  an  earthquake.  Out  went  the 
electric  light,  leaving  only  our  candles  aglow  under  red 
shades. 

Bar-le-Duc  was  in  for  an  air  raid. 


CHAPTER  IX 

FOR  a  moment  we  thought  the  house  had  been 
struck  by  a  bomb,  and  were  astonished  that  it 
stood.  In  the  uproar  of  explosions  and  crashings 
and  jinglings,  the  small  silence  of  our  room — with  its  gay 
chrysanthemums  and  shaded  candles — was  like  that  of  a 
sheltered  oasis  in  a  desert  storm. 

Not  one  of  us  uttered  a  sound.  Father  Beckett  took  his 
wife  in  his  arms,  and  held  her  tight,  her  face  hidden  in  his 
coat.  Brian  had  not  even  got  up  from  his  chair  by  the 
table.  He'd  lighted  a  cigarette,  and  continued  to  smoke 
calmly,  a  half-smile  on  his  face,  as  if  the  bombardment 
carried  him  back  to  life  in  the  trenches.  But  the  beautiful 
sightless  eyes  searched  for  what  they  could  not  see:  and  I 
knew  that  I  was  in  his  thoughts.  I  would  have  gone  to 
him,  after  the  first  petrifying  instant  of  surprise,  but  the 
singing-man  stopped  me.  "Are  you  afraid?"  I  heard 
his  voice  close  to  my  ear.  Perhaps  he  shouted.  But  in  the 
din  it  was  as  if  he  whispered. 

"No!"  I  flung  back.  "Had  you  not  better  go  and  take 
care  of  your  sister?" 

He  laughed.  "My  sister!  Look  at  her!  Does  she 
need  taking  care  of?" 

The  girl  had  come  from  the  suddenly  darkened  salon 
into  our  room.  As  he  spoke,  she  walked  to  the  table, 
helped  herself  to  a  cigarette  from  Brian's  silver  case  which 

78 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  79 

lay  open,  and  asked  its  owner  for  a  light.  It  struck  me 
that  she  did  not  realize  his  blindness. 

Certainly  the  young  woman  did  not  "need  taking  care 
of."  Nor  did  I !  Deliberately  I  turned  my  back  upon  the 
man;  but  he  snatched  at  the  end  of  a  scarf  I  wore.  "No 
one's  looking,"  he  said.  "Take  this — for  your  own  sake." 
And  he  thrust  into  a  little  outside  pocket  of  my  dress  a 
folded  bit  of  paper.  Then  he  let  me  go,  stepping  back  to 
prevent  my  returning  the  note. 

For  a  second  I  hesitated,  not  knowing  which  of  two  evils 
to  choose;  but  the  woman  who  hesitates  is  inevitably  lost. 
Before  I  could  make  up  my  mind,  the  door  opened  and  the 
landlord  appeared,  apologizing  for  the  raid  as  if  it  had  been 
an  accident  of  his  kitchen.  We  must  have  no  fear.  All 
danger  was  over.  The  avion — only  one! — had  been 
chased  out  of  our  neighbourhood.  The  noise  we  heard 
now  was  merely  shrapnel  fired  by  anti-aircraft  guns.  We 
would  not  be  disturbed  again,  that  he'd  guarantee  from 
his  experience! 

Mrs.  Beckett  emerged  from  her  husband's  coat.  Mr. 
Beckett  laughed,  and  patting  his  wife's  shoulder,  com 
plimented  her  courage.  "  I'm  not  sure  we  haven't  behaved 
pretty  well  for  our  first  air  raid,"  he  said.  "The  rest  of 
you  were  fine !  But  I  suppose  even  you  ladies  have  seen 
some  of  these  shows  before?  As  for  you,  Brian,  my  boy, 
you're  a  soldier.  What  we've  been  through  must  seem  a 
summer  shower  to  you.  And  you,  sir" — he  turned  to  the 
singing-man — "I  think  you  mentioned  you'd  had  shell 
shock " 

"Yes,"  the  other  answered  quickly.  "It  cost  me  my 
voice." 


80  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

"Cost  you  your  voice?'*  Father  Beckett  echoed.  "H 
it  was  better  than  it  is  now,  why,  it  must  have  been  a 
marvel !  We're  ignorant  in  the  music  line,  my  wife  arvd  I, 
so  if  we  ought  to  know  who  you  are " 

The  young  man  laughed.  "Oh,  don't  be  afraid  of  hurt 
ing  my  feelings !  If  you  were  an  Italian,  or  a  Britisher — • 
but  an  American!  I  sang  in  New  York  only  part  of 
last  winter,  and  then  I — came  over  here,  like  every 
one  else.  My  name  is  Julian  O'Farrell,  but  my 
mother  was  an  Italian  of  Naples,  once  a  prima  donna. 
She  wished  me  to  make  my  professional  debut  as  Giulio 
di  Napoli." 

The  name  appeared  to  mean  nothing  for  the  Becketts, 
but  instantly  I  knew  who  the  man  was,  if  little  about 
him.  I  remembered  reading  of  the  sensation  he  created 
in  London  the  summer  that  Brian  and  I  tramped  through 
France  and  Belgium.  The  next  I  heard  was  that  he  had 
"gone  back"  to  Italy.  I  had  of  course  supposed  him 
to  be  an  Italian.  But  now  he  boasted — or  confessed— 
that  he  was  an  Irishman.  Why,  then,  had  he  left  England 
for  Italy  when  the  war  broke  out?  Why  had  he  been 
singing  in  New  York  after  Italy  joined  the  Allies?  Above 
all,  what  had  happened  since,  to  put  him  on  my  track,  with 
a  Red  Cross  flag  and  a  taxi-cab  ? 

These  questions  asked  themselves  in  my  head,  while  I 
could  have  counted  "One — two — three."  Meantime, 
Brian  had  spoken  to  the  girl,  and  she  had  answered  shortly, 
in  words  I  could  not  hear,  but  with  a  sullen,  doubtful  look, 
like  a  small  trapped  creature  that  snaps  at  a  friendly  hand. 
The  landlord  was  helping  a  white-faced  waiter  to  clear  a 
place  on  the  table  for  a  tray  of  coffee  and  liqueurs;  and 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  81 

outside  the  noise  of  shrapnel  had  died  in  the  distance. 
The  air-raid  incident  was  closed.  What  next? 

"You'll  both  have  coffee  with  us,  won't  you,  Signor  di 
Napoli — or  Mr.  O'Farrell?  Or  should  I  say  Lieutenant  or 
Captain?"  Father  Beckett  was  urging.  "You  were  a 
friend  of  our  son's,  and  my  wife  and  I " 

"Plain  Mister  O'Farrell  it  is,"  the  other  broke  in. 
"Thanks,  it  would  be  a  pleasure  to  stay,  but  it's  best  to 
refuse,  I'm  sure,  for  my  sister's  sake.  You  see  by  her  dress 
what  her  work  has  been,  and  she's  on  leave  because  she's 
tired  out.  She  faints  easily — and  what  with  the  air  raid — 
maybe  you'll  let  us  pay  our  respects  before  you  leave  to 
morrow?  Then  we'll  tell  you  all  you  want  to  know. 
Anyhow,  we  may  be  going  on  for  some  time  in  your 
direction.  I  saw  by  a  Paris  paper  a  few  days  ago  you 
were  making  a  tour  of  the  Fronts,  beginning  at  the  Lor 
raine  end." 

His  eyes  were  on  me  as  he  spoke,  bright  with  imp-like 
malice.  He  looked  so  like  a  mischievous  schoolboy  that 
it  was  hard  to  take  him  seriously.  Yet  everything  warned 
me  to  do  so,  and  his  allusion  to  the  Paris  newspapers  ex 
plained  much.  For  the  second  time  a  reporter  had  caught 
Father  Beckett,  and  got  out  of  him  the  statement  that 
"My  dead  son's  fiancee,  Miss  Mary  O'Malley,  who's  been 
nursing  in  a  'contagious*  hospital  near  St  Raphael,  will 
be  with  us:  and  her  brother." 

So  that  was  how  the  man  had  heard  about  me,  and  for 
some  reason  found  it  worth  while  to  follow,  waving  the 
sword  of  Damocles !  His  note  burned  my  pocket.  And  7 
burned  to  know  what  it  said.  No  doubt  it  would  explain 
why  he  did  not  cut  off  my  head  at  once,  and  have  it  over ! 


82  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

"I  think,"  he  was  going  on,  "that  the  sooner  I  can  get 
this  poor  little  girl"  (a  tap  on  his  sister's  shoulder)  "to 
her  room  and  to  bed  the  better  it  will  be." 

Any  one  apparently  less  likely  to  faint,  or  less  in  need  of 
rest,  than  the  "poor  little  girl"  indicated,  it  would  be 
difficult  to  find,  I  thought:  but  the  kindly  Becketts  were 
the  last  creatures  to  be  critical.  They  sympathized,  and 
changed  their  invitation  from  after-dinner  coffee  to  break 
fast  at  nine.  This  was  accepted  by  O'Farrell  for  himself 
and  his  sister,  and  taking  the  girl's  arm,  the  ex-singer 
swept  her  off  in  a  dramatic  exit. 

When  they  had  gone,  it  was  Brian  who  asked  me  if  I  had 
known  them  in  the  south;  and  because  no  incentive  could 
make  me  lie  to  Brian,  I  promptly  answered  "No."  As  I 
spoke,  it  occurred  to  me  that  now,  if  ever,  was  the  moment 
when  I  might  still  succeed  in  spoking  the  wheel  of  Mr.  and 
Miss  O'Farrell  before  that  wheel  had  time  to  crush  me.  I 
could  throw  doubt  upon  their  good  faith.  I  could  hint 
that,  if  they  had  really  been  doing  Red  Cross  or  other  work 
at  St.  Raphael,  I  should  certainly  have  heard  of  them.  But 
I  held  my  peace — partly  through  qualms  of  conscience, 
partly  through  fear.  Unless  the  man  had  proofs  to  bring 
of  his  bona  fides  where  Jim  Beckett  was  concerned,  he  would 
scarcely  have  followed  us  to  claim  acquaintance  with  the 
parents  and  confound  the  alleged  fiancee.  That  he  had 
followed  us  on  purpose  I  was  sure.  Not  for  a  second  did  I 
believe  that  the  arrival  of  the  taxi-cab  in  our  wake  was  a 
coincidence ! 

We  drank  our  coffee,  talking  of  the  raid  and  of  the 
O'Farrells,  and — as  always — of  Jim.  Then  Father  Beck 
ett  noticed  that  his  wife  was  pale.  "She  looks  as  if  she 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  83 

needed  bed  a  good  sight  more  than  that  little  girl  did,"  he 
said  in  the  simple,  homely  way  I've  learned  to  love. 

Presently  we  had  all  bidden  each  other  good-night,  even 
Brian  and  I.  Then — in  my  own  room — I  was  free  to  take 
that  folded  bit  of  paper  from  my  pocket. 


CHAPTER  X 

TO  MY  surprise,  there  were  only  three  lines,  scrib 
bled  in  pencil. 
"Come  to  the  salon  for  a  talk  when  the  rest  of 
your  party  have  gone  to  bed.     I'll  be  waiting,  and  won't 
keep  you  long." 

"Impudent  brute!"  I  said  out  aloud.  But  a  moment 
later  I  had  decided  to  keep  the  appointment  and  learn  the 
worst.  Needs  must,  when  the  devil  drives! — if  you're  in 
the  power  of  the  devil.  I  was.  And,  alas!  through  my 
fault,  so  was  Brian.  After  going  so  far,  I  could  not  af 
ford  to  be  thrown  back  without  a  struggle;  and  I  went 
downstairs  prepared  to  fight. 

It  was  not  yet  late;  only  a  few  minutes  after  ten  o'clock; 
and  though  the  Becketts  and  Brian  were  on  the  road  to 
sleep,  the  hotel  was  awake,  and  even  lively  in  its  wakeful- 
ness.  The  door  of  the  public  salon  stood  open,  and  the 
electric  light  had  come  on  again.  At  the  table,  in  the  centre 
of  the  room,  sat  Mr.  Julian  O'Farrell,  alias  Giulio  di  Na- 
poli,  conspicuously  interested  in  an  illustrated  paper.  He 
jumped  up  at  sight  of  me,  and  smiled  a  brilliant  smile  of 
welcome,  but  did  not  speak.  A  sudden,  obstinate  deter 
mination  seized  me  to  thwart  him,  if  he  meant  to  force  the 
first  move  upon  me.  I  bowed  coolly,  as  one  acknowledges 
the  existence  of  an  hotel  acquaintance,  and  passing  to  the 
other  end  of  the  long  table,  picked  up  a  Je  Sais  Tout  of  a 
date  two  years  before  the  war. 

84 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  85 

I  did  not  sit  down,  but  assumed  the  air  of  hovering  for  a 
moment  on  my  way  elsewhere.  This  manoeuvre  kept  the 
enemy  on  his  feet;  and  as  the  cheap  but  stately  clock  on 
the  mantel  ticked  out  second  after  second,  I  felt  nervously 
inclined  to  laugh,  despite  the  seriousness  of  my  situation. 
I  bit  my  lip  hard  to  frighten  away  a  smile  that  would  have 
spoilt  everything.  "If  it  goes  on  like  this  for  an  hour," 
I  said  to  myself,  "I  won't  open  my  mouth!" 

Into  the  midst  of  this  vow  broke  an  explosion  of  laugh 
ter  that  made  me  start  as  if  it  announced  a  new  bom 
bardment.  I  looked  up  involuntarily,  and  met  the  dark 
Italian  eyes  sparkling  with  fun.  "I  beg  your  pardon!" 
the  man  gurgled.  "I  was  wondering  which  is  older,  your 
Je  Sais  Tout  or  my  Illustration  ?  Mine's  the  Christmas 
number  of  1909." 

"Yours  has  the  advantage  in  age,"  I  replied,  without  a 
smile.  "Mine  goes  back  only  to  1912." 

"Ah!  I'm  glad  to  score  that  one  point,"  he  said,  still 
laughing.  "Dear  Miss  O'Malley,  won't  you  please  sit 
down?  I'm  a  lazy  fellow,  and  I'm  so  tired  of  standing! 
Now,  don't  begin  by  being  cross  with  me  because  I  call  you 
'dear.'  If  you  realized  what  I've  done  for  you,  and  what 
I'm  ready  to  do,  you'd  say  I'd  earned  that  right,  to  begin 
with!" 

"I  don't  understand  you  at  all,  or  why  you  should 
claim  any  right,"  I  hedged.  But  I  sat  down,  and  he  sank 
so  heavily  into  an  ancient,  plush-covered  chair  that  a 
spray  of  dust  flew  up  from  the  cushions. 

"I'm  afraid  I'm  rather  too  fat!"  he  apologized.  "But 
I  always  lose  flesh  motoring,  so  you'll  see  a  change  for  the 
better,  I  hope — in  a  week  or  two.  I  expect  our  lines  will  be 


86  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

cast  in  the  same  places  for  some  time  to  come — if  you're  as 
wise  as — as  you  are  pretty.  If  not,  I'm  afraid  you  and 
Mr.  O'Malley  won't  be  long  with  our  party.  I  say,  you 
are  gorgeous  when  you're  in  a  rage!  But  why  fly  into  a 
fury?  You  told  me  you  didn't  understand  things.  I'm 
doing  my  best  to  explain." 

"Then  your  best  is  very  bad,"  I  said. 

"Sorry!  I'll  begin  another  way.  Listen!  I'm  going  to 
be  perfectly  frank.  Why  not?  We're  birds  of  a  feather. 
And  the  pot  can't  call  the  kettle  black.  Maybe  my  similes 
are  a  bit  mixed,  but  you'll  excuse  that,  as  we're  both  Irish. 
Why,  my  being  Irish — and  Italian — is  an  explanation  of 
me  in  itself,  if  you'd  take  the  trouble  to  study  it.  But  look 
here !  I  don't  want  you  to  take  any  trouble.  I  don't  want 
to  give  you  any  trouble.  Now  do  you  begin  to  see  light?" 

"No!"  I  threw  at  him. 

"I  don't  believe  you,  dear  girl.  You  malign  your  own 
wits.  You  pay  yourself  worse  compliments  than  I'd  let 
any  one  else  do !  But  I  promised  not  to  keep  you  long. 
And  if  I  break  my  promise  it  will  be  your  fault — because 
you're  not  reasonable.  You're  the  pot  and  I'm  the  kettle, 
because  we're  both  tarred  with  the  same  brush.  By  the 
way,  are  pots  and  kettles  blacked  with  tar?  They  look  it. 
But  that's  a  detail.  My  sister  and  I  are  just  as  dead  broke 
and  down  and  out  as  you  and  your  brother  are.  I  mean, 
as  you  were,  and  as  you  may  be  again,  if  you  make  mis 
takes." 

"I'd  rather  not  bring  my  brother  into  this  discussion," 
I  said.  "He's  too  far  above  it — and  us.  You  can  do  as 
you  choose  about  your  sister." 

"I  can  make  her  do  as  /  choose,"  he  amended.     "That's 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  87 

where  my  scheme  came  in,  and  where  it  still  holds  good. 
When  I  read  the  news  of  Pa  and  Ma  Beckett  arriving  in 
Paris,  it  jumped  into  my  head  like  a — like  a " 

"Toad,"  I  supplied  the  simile. 

"I  was  leaving  it  to  you,"  said  he.  "I  thought  you 
ought  to  know,  for  by  a  wonderful  coincidence  which  should 
draw  us  together,  the  same  great  idea  must  have  occurred 
to  you — in  the  same  way,  and  on  the  same  day.  I  bet  you 
the  first  hundred  francs  I  get  out  of  old  Beckett  that  it  was 
so!" 

"Mr.  OTarrell,  you're  a  Beast!"  I  cried. 

"And  you're  a  Beauty.  So  there  we  are,  cast  for  oppo 
site  parts  in  the  same  play.  Queer  how  it  works  out! 
Looks  like  the  hand  of  Providence.  Don't  say  what  you 
want  to  say,  or  I  shall  be  afraid  you've  been  badly  brought 
up.  North  of  Ireland,  I  understand.  We're  South. 
Dierdre's  a  Sinn  Feiner.  You  needn't  expect  mercy  from 
her,  unless  I  keep  her  down  with  a  strong  hand — the  Hid 
den  Hand.  She  hates  you  Northerners  about  ten  times 
worse  than  she  hates  the  Huns.  Now  you  look  as  if  you 
thought  her  name  wasn't  Dierdre !  It  is,  because  she  took 
it.  She  takes  a  lot  of  things,  when  I've  showed  her  how. 
For  instance,  photographs.  She  has  several  snapshots  of 
Jim  Beckett  and  me  together.  I  have  some  of  him  and 
her.  They're  pretty  strong  cards  (I  don't  mean  a  pun!) 
if  we  decide  to  use  them.  Don't  you  agree?  " 

"I  neither  agree  nor  disagree,"  I  said,  "for  I  understand 
you  no  better  now  than  when  you  began." 

"You're  like  Mr.  Justice  What's-his-name,  who's  so 
innocent  he  never  heard  of  the  race  course.  Well,  I  must 
adapt  myself  to  your  child-like  intelligence!  I'll  go  back 


88  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

a  bit  to  an  earlier  chapter  in  my  career,  the  way  novels  and 
cinemas  do,  after  they've  given  the  public  a  good,  bright 
opening.  It  was  true,  what  I  said  about  my  voice.  I've 
lost  everything  but  my  middle  register.  I  had  a  fortune  in 
my  throat.  At  present  I've  got  nothing  but  a  warble  fit  for 
a  small  drawing  room — and  that,  only  by  careful  manage 
ment.  I  knew  months  ago  I  could  never  sing  again  in 
opera.  I  was  coining  money  in  New  York,  and  would  be 
now — if  they  hadn't  dug  me  out  as  a  slacker — an  embusqvS 
— whatever  you  like  to  call  it.  I  was  a  conscientious 
objector:  that  is,  my  conviction  was  it  would  be  sinful  to 
risk  a  bullet  in  a  chest  full  of  music,  like  .mine — a  treasure- 
chest.  But  the  fools  didn't  see  it  in  that  light.  They  made 
America  too  hot  to  hold  either  Giulio  di  Napoli  or  Julian 
O'Farrell.  I'm  no  coward — I  swear  to  you  I'm  not,  my 
dear  girl!  You've  only  to  look  me  square  in  the  face  to 
see  I'm  not.  I'm  full  of  fire.  But  ever  since  I  was  a  boy 
I've  lived  for  my  voice,  and  you  can't  d]e  for  your  voice, 
like  you  can  for  your  country.  It  goes — pop  !• — with  you. 
I  managed  to  convince  the  doctors  that  my  heart  was  too 
jumpy  for  the  trenches.  I  see  digitalis  in  your  eye,  Miss 
Trained  Nurse!  It  wasn't.  It  was  strophantis.  But 
they  would  set  me  to  driving  a  motor  ambulance — cold- 
hearted  brutes !  I  got  too  near  the  front  line  one  day — or 
rather  the  front  line  got  too  near  me,  and  a  shell  hit  my  am 
bulance.  The  next  thing  I  knew  I  was  in  hospital,  and  the 
first  thing  I  thought  of  was  my  voice.  A  frog  would  have 
disowned  it.  I  hoped  for  a  while  it  might  come  right;  but 
they  sent  me  to  St.  Raphael  for  a  sun  cure,  and — it  didn't 
work.  That  was  last  spring.  I'm  as  well  as  I  ever  was, 
except  in  my  throat,  and  there  the  specialists  say  I  need 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  89 

never  expect  to  be  better.  I'd  change  with  your  brother, 
Miss  O'Malley.  My  God,  I  would.  If  I  could  lose  my 
eyes  and  have  my  voice  again — my  voice!" 

His  flippancy  broke  down  on  those  words,  with  one  sin 
cere  and  tragic  note  that  touched  me  through  my  con 
tempt.  Watching,  he  saw  this,  and  catching  at  self-control, 
he  caught  also  at  the  straw  of  sympathy  within  his  reach. 

"I  wanted  to  die  for  a  while,"  he  went  on.  "But  youth 
is  strong,  even  when  you're  down  on  your  luck — down  at 
the  deepest.  My  sister  came  to  St.  Raphael  to  be  with  me. 
It  may  seem  queer  to  you,  but  I'm  her  idol.  She's  lost 
everything  else — or  rather  she  thinks  she  has,  which  is 
much  the  same — everything  that  made  her  life  worth  liv 
ing.  She  wanted  to  be  a  singer.  Her  voice  wasn't  strong 
enough.  She  wanted  to  be  an  actress.  She  knew  how  to 
act,  but — she  couldn't,  Heaven  knows  why.  She's  got 
temperament  enough,  but  she  couldn't  let  herself  out. 
You  see  what  she's  like!  She  failed  in  America,  where 
she'd  followed  me  against  our  mother's  will.  Mother  died 
while  we  were  there.  Another  blow !  And  a  man  Dierdre's 
been  half  engaged  to  was  killed  in  Belgium.  She  didn't 
love  him,  but  he  was  made  of  money.  It  would  have  been 
a  big  match !  She  took  to  nursing  only  after  I  was  called 
up.  You  know  in  France  a  girl  doesn't  need  much  experi 
ence  to  get  into  a  hospital.  But  poor  little  Dare  wasn't 
more  of  a  success  at  nursing  than  on  the  stage.  Not 
enough  self-confidence — too  sensitive.  People  think  she's 
always  in  the  sulks — and  so  she  is,  these  days.  I'd  been 
trying  for  six  months'  sick  leave,  and  just  got  it  when  I 
rtad  that  stun7  in  the  paper  about  Beckett  being  killed,  and 
his  parents  hearing  the  news  the  day  they  arrived.  It 


90  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

struck  me  like  drama:  things  do.  I  was  born  dramatic — 
took  it  from  my  mother.  The  thought  came  to  me,  how 
dead  easy  'twould  be  for  some  girl  to  pretend  she'd  been 
engaged  to  Beckett,  and  win  her  wily  way  to  the  hearts 
and  pockets  of  the  old  birds.  Next  I  thought:  Why  not 
Dierdre?  And  there  wasn't  any  reason  why  not!  I  told 
her  it  would  be  good  practice  in  acting.  (She  hasn't  quite 
given  up  hope  of  the  stage  yet.)  We  started  for  Paris 
on  the  job;  and  then  I  read  in  a  later  copy  of  the  same 
paper  about  the  smart  young  lady  who'd  stepped  in  ahead 
of  us.  If  old  Beckett  hadn't  been  bursting  with  pride 
in  the  heroic  girl  who'd  got  a  medal  for  nursing  infectious 
cases  in  a  hospital  near  St.  Raphael,  I'd  have  given  up  the 
game  for  a  bad  job.  I'd  have  taken  it  for  granted  that 
Jim  and  the  fiancee  had  met  before  we  met  him  at  St. 
Raphael.  But  when  the  paper  said  they'd  made  acquain 
tance  there,  and  gave  your  name  and  all,  I  knew  you  were 
on  the  same  trail  with  us.  You'd  walked  in  ahead,  that 
was  the  only  difference.  And  we  had  the  snapshots.  We 
could  call  witnesses  to  swear  that  no  nurse  from  your  hos 
pital  had  come  near  St.  Raphael,  and  to  swear  that  none 
of  the  chaps  in  the  aviation  school  had  ever  come  near 
them.  Dierdre  hadn't  been  keen  at  first,  but  once  she  was 
in,  she  didn't  want  to  fail  again;  especially  for  a  North  of 
Ireland  girl  like  you.  She  was  ready  to  go  on.  But  the 
newspaper  gushed  a  good  deal  over  your  looks,  you  re 
member.  My  curiosity  was  roused.  I  was — sort  of 
obsessed  by  the  thought  of  you.  I  decided  to  see  what 
your  head  was  like  to  look  at  before  chopping  it  off.  And 
anyhow,  you'd  already  started  on  your  jaunt.  Through  a 
rich  chap  I  knew  in  New  York,  who's  over  here  helping  the 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  91 

Red  Cross,  I  got  leave  to  carry  supplies  to  the  evacuated 
towns,  provided  I  could  find  my  own  car.  Well,  I  found 
it — such  as  it  is.  All  I  ask  of  it  is  not  to  break  down  till 
the  Becketts  have  learned  to  love  me  as  their  dear,  dead 
son's  best  friend.  As  for  Dare — -what  she  was  to  the  dear 
dead  son  depends  on  you." 

"Depends  on  me?"  I  repeated. 

"Depends  on  you.  Dare's  not  a  good  Sunday-school 
girl,  but  she's  good  to  her  brother — as  good  as  you  are  to 
yours,  in  her  way.  She'll  do  what  I  want.  But  the 
question  is  Will  you  ?" 

For  a  moment  I  did  not  speak.  Then  I  asked,  "What 
do  you  want?" 

"Only  a  very  little  thing,"  he  said.  "To  live  and  let 
live,  that's  all.  Don't  you  try  to  queer  my  pitch,  and  I 
won't  queer  yours." 

"What  is  your  pitch?"  I  asked. 

He  laughed.  "You're  very  non-committal,  aren't  you? 
But  I  like  your  pluck.  You've  never  once  admitted  by 
word  or  look  that  you're  caught.  All  the  same,  you  know 
you  are.  You  can't  hurt  me,  and  I  can  hurt  you.  Your 
word  wouldn't  stand  against  my  proofs,  if  you  put  up  a 
fight.  You'd  go  down — and  your  brother  with  you.  Oh, 
I  don't  think  he's  in  it !  The  minute  I  saw  his  face  I  was 
sure  he  wasn't;  and  I  guessed  from  yours  that  what  you'd 
done  was  mostly  or  all  for  him.  Now,  dear  Miss  O'Malley, 
you  know  where  you  are  with  me.  Isn't  that  enough  for 
you?  Can't  you  just  be  wise  and  promise  to  let  me  alone 
on  my  'pitch,'  whatever  it  is?" 

"I  won't  have  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Beckett  made  fools  of  in 
any  way." 


92  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

He  burst  out  laughing.  "That's  good — from  you  I  I 
give  you  leave  to  watch  over  their  interests,  if  you  let  me 
take  care  of  mine.  Is  it  a  bargain?  " 

I  did  not  answer.     I  was  thinking — thinking  furiously, 
when  the  landlord  came  to  the  door  to  put  out  the  lights. 

G'Farrell  sprang  to  his  feet.  "We're  ready  to  go.  We 
can  leave  the  room  free,  can't  we,  Miss  O'Malley?"  he 
said  in  French. 

Somehow,  I  found  myself  getting  up,  and  fading  out  of 
the  room  as  if  I'd  been  hypnotized.  I  walked  straight  to 
the  foot  of  the  stairs,  then  turned  at  bay  to  deliver  some 
ultimatum — I  scarcely  knew  what.  But  O'Farrell  had 
cleverly  accomplished  a  vanishing  act,  and  there  was 
nothing  left  for  me  to  do  save  go  to  my  own  room. 


CHAPTER  XI 

THINKING  things  over  in  the  night,  I  decided  to 
wait  until  after  breakfast  before  making  up  my 
mind  to  anything  irrevocable.     Breakfast  being 
the  appointed  rendezvous,  O'Farrell  would  then  lay  his 
cards  on  the  table.     If  he  slipped  some  up  his  sleeve,  I  must 
make  it  my  business  to  spot  the  trick  and  its  meaning  for 
the  Becketts. 

As  I  offered  this  sop  to  my  conscience,  I  could  almost 
hear  O'Farrell  saying,  with  one  of  his  young  laughs, 
"That's  right.  Set  a  thief  to  catch  a  thief!" 

At  ten  o'clock  we  were  to  start  for  Nancy  via  Commercy, 
so  there  would  be  little  time  to  reflect,  and  to  act  on  top  o! 
reflection;  but  my  strait  being  desperate,  I  resolved  to 
'trust  to  luck;  and  to  be  first  on  the  field  of  battle,  I  knocked 
at  Brian's  door  at  half -past  eight. 

He  was  already  dressed,  and  to  look  at  his  neat  cravat 
and  smoothly  brushed  hair  no  one  would  have  guessed  that 
his  toilet  had  been  made  by  a  blind  man.  We  had  not  yet 
exchanged  opinions  of  the  O'Farrell  family,  and  I  had  come 
early  to  get  his  impressions.  They  were  always  as  accu 
rate  and  quickly  built  up  as  his  sketches;  but  since  he  has 
been  blind,  he  seems  almost  clairvoyant. 

"What  do  you  think  of  those  two?"  I  asked.  "Or 
rather,  what  do  you  think  of  the  man?  I  know  you  have 
to  judge  by  voices;  and  as  the  girl  hardly  opened  her 

mouth  you  can't " 

93 


94  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

"Queer  thing — and  I  don't  quite  understand  it  myself," 
said  Brian;  "but  I  see  Miss  O'Farrell  more  clearly  than 
her  brother." 

He  generally  speaks  of  "seeing  people,"  quite  as  a 
matter  of  course.  It  used  to  give  me  a  sharp  pain  at  my 
heart;  but  I  begin  to  take  his  way  for  granted  now. 
"  There's  something  about  O'Farrell  that  eludes  me — slips 
away  like  quicksilver.  One  is  charmed  with  his  voice  and 
his  good  looks : 

"Brian !   Who  told  you  he  was  good-looking?  "  I  broke  in. 

Brian  laughed.  "I  told  myself!  His  manner — so  sure 
of  his  power  to  please — belongs  to  good  looks.  Besides, 
I've  never  known  a  tenor  w^ith  any  such  quality  of  voice 
who  hadn't  magnificent  eyes.  Why  they  should  go  to 
gether  is  a  mystery — but  they  do.  Am  I  right  about  this 
chap?" 

"Yes,  you're  right,"  I  admitted.  "But  go  on.  I'm 
more  interested  in  him  than  in  his  sister." 

"Are  you?  I've  imagined  her  the  more  interesting — 
the  more  repaying — of  the  two.  I  see  O'Farrell,  not  a  bad 
fellow,  but — not  sure.  I  don't  believe  he's  even  sure  of 
himself,  whether  he  wants  to  be  straight  or  crooked.  How 
he  turns  out  will  depend — on  circumstances,  or  perhaps  on 
some  woman.  If  he  travels  with  us,  he'll  be  a  pleasant 
companion,  there's  no  doubt.  But — 

"But— what?" 

"Well,  we  must  always  keep  in  mind  that  he's  an  actor. 
We  mustn't  take  too  seriously  anything  he  says  or  does. 
And  you,  Molly — you  must  be  more  careful  than  the  rest." 

"I!  But  I  told  you  I'd  never  met  him  at  St.  Raphael. 
I  never  set  eyes  on  him  till  last  night." 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  95 

"I  know.  Yet  I  felt,  when  he  'set  eyes'  on  you — oh,  I 
don't  know  how  to  express  what  I  felt!  Only — if  it  had 
happened  on  the  stage,  there'd  have  been  music  for  it  in 
the  orchestra." 

"Brian,  how  strange  you  are!"  I  almost  gasped. 
"Ought  we  to  let  the  man  and  his  sister  go  on  with  us,  if 
that's  their  aim?  Their  Red  Cross  flag  may  be  camou 
flage,  you  know!  Very  likely  they're  adventurers,  after 
the  Beckett's  money.  We  could  advise  Father  and  Mother 
Beck " 

"Let's  follow  a  famous  example,  and  'wait  and  see' — 
if  only  for  the  girl's  sake." 

"Oh,  you  think  so  well  of  her!" 

"Not  well,  exactly,"  Brian  hesitated.  "I  don't  know 
what  to  think  of  her  yet.  But — I  think  about  her.  I  feel 
her,  as  I  feel  electricity  before  a  thunderstorm  bursts." 

"A  thunderstorm  expresses  her!"  I  laughed.  "I 
thought  of  that  myself.  She's  sullen — brooding,  dark  as  a 
cloud.  Yet  the  tiniest  thing!  One  could  almost  break 
her  in  two." 

"I  held  out  my  hand  for  good-night,"  Brian  said.  "She 
had  to  give  hers,  though  I'm  sure  for  some  reason  she 
didn't  want  to.  It  was  small  and — crushable,  like  a 
child's;  and  hot,  as  if  she  had  fever." 

"She  didn't  want  to  take  yours,  because  we're  North  of 
Ireland  and  she's  a  fierce  Sinn  Feiner,"  I  explained. 
Luckily  Brian  did  not  ask  how  I'd  picked  up  this  piece  of 
information!  He  was  delighted  with  it,  and  chuckled. 
"So  she's  a  Sinn  Feiner!  She's  very  pretty,  isn't  she?*' 

"In  a  cross-patch  way.  She  looks  ready  to  bite  at  a 
touch." 


96  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

"  Poor  child !  Life  must  have  gone  hard  with  her.  She's 
probably  got  a  grouch,  as  the  American  boys  over  here  say. 
We  must  try  and  do  something  to  soften  her  down,  and 
make  her  see  things  through  rosier  spectacles,  if  she  and  her 
brother  join  on  to  our  party  for  a  while." 

"Ye-es." 

"You  don't  like  her,  Molly?" 

"Oh,  I've  hardly  thought  of  her,  dear.  But  you  seem 
to  have  made  up  for  that." 

"Thunderstorms  make  you  think  about  them.  They 
electrify  the  atmosphere.  I  see  this  girl  so  distinctly  some 
how:  little,  white  thing;  big,  gloomy  eyes  like  storms  in 
deep  woods,  and  thin  eyelids — you  know,  that  transpar 
ent,  flower-petal  kind,  where  you  fancy  you  see  the  iris 
looking  through,  like  spirit  eyes,  always  awake  while  the 
body's  eyes  sleep;  and — and  lots  of  dark  hair  without  much 
colour — hair  like  smoke.  I  see  her  a  suppressed  volcano — 
but  not  extinct." 

"The  day  may  come  when  we'll  wish  she  were  extinct. 
But  really  you've  described  her  better  than  I  could, 
though  I  stared  quite  a  lot  last  night.  Come  along,  dear. 
It's  six  minutes  to  nine.  Let's  trot  down  to  breakfast." 

We  trotted;  but  early  as  I'd  meant  to  be,  and  early  as 
we  were,  the  O'Farrells  and  the  Becketts  were  before  us. 
How  long  they  had  been  together  I  don't  know,  but  they 
must  have  finished  their  first  instalment  of  talk  about  Jim, 
for  already  they  had  got  on  to  the  subject  of  plans. 

"Well,  it  will  be  noble  of  you  to  help  us  with  supplies. 
The  promise  we've  got  from  our  American  Red  Cross  man 
in  Paris  is  limited,"  O'Farrell  was  saying  in  his  voice  to 
charm  a  statue  off  its  pedestal,  as  we  came  in.  He 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  97 

sprang  to  shut  the  door  for  us,  and  gave  me  the  look  of  a 
cherubic  fox,  as  much  as  to  say,  "You  see  where  we've  got 
to !  But  it's  all  for  the  good  cause.  There's  more  than  one 
person  not  as  black  as  he's  painted!" 

"Molly's  watch  must  be  slow,"  said  Brian.  "She 
thought  it  was  only  six  minutes  to  nine." 

"She's  right.  But  it  seems  the  big  clock  in  the  hall  out 
side  our  door  is  fast,"  explained  Father  Beckett.  "We 
heard  it  strike  nine,  so  we  hurried  down.  The  same  thing 
happened  with  Mr.  and  Miss  O'Farrell." 

Another  glance  at  me  from  the  brilliant  eyes!  "Smart 
trick,  eh?"  they  telegraphed.  I  had  to  turn  away,  or  I 
should  have  laughed.  Surely  never  before,  on  stage  or  in 
story — to  say  nothing  of  real  life — was  the  villain  and 
blackmailer  a  mischievous,  schoolboy  imp,  who  made  his 
victims  giggle  at  the  very  antics  which  caught  them  in  his 
toils!  But,  come  to  think  of  it,  I  am  a  villain,  and  next 
door  to  a  blackmailer!  Yet  I  always  see  myself  (unless  I 
stop  to  reflect  on  my  sins)  as  a  girl  like  other  girls,  even 
better-natured  and  more  agreeable  and  intelligent  than 
most.  Perhaps,  after  all,  villains  don't  run  in  types ! 

I  soon  learned  that  Father  and  Mother  Beckett  were 
rejoicing  in  the  acquisition  of  Jim's  two  friends  as  travelling 
companions.  The  celebrated  snapshots  were  among  the 
cards  O'Farrell  had  kept  up  his  sleeve.  No  doubt  he'd 
waited  to  make  sure  of  my  attitude  (though  he  appeared 
to  take  it  for  granted)  before  deciding  what  use  to  make  of 
his  best  trumps.  Seeing  that  I  let  slip  my  one  and  only 
chance  of  a  denunciation-scene,  he  flung  away  his  also,  with 
an  air  of  dashing  chivalry  which  his  sister  and  I  alone  were 
in  a  position  to  appreciate.  For  me  it  had  been  a  case  of 


98  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

"speak  now,  or  forever  after  hold  your  peace."  For  him, 
a  decision  was  not  irrevocable,  as  he  could  denounce  me 
later,  and  plead  that  I  had  been  spared  at  first,  through 
kindness  of  heart.  But  I  did  not  stop  to  consider  that 
detail.  I  saw  the  man  and  myself  as  accomplices,  on  an 
equal  footing,  each  having  given  quarter  to  the  other.  As 
for  the  girl,  I  still  thought  of  her  hardly  at  all,  in  spite  of 
Brian's  words.  She  was  an  unknown  quantity,  which  I 
would  waste  no  time  in  studying,  while  the  situation  that 
opened  bade  me  sharpen  my  wits. 

In  the  five  or  ten  minutes  before  we  joined  them  the 
Becketts  had  consented — or  offered — to  help  finance  the 
Red  Cross  crusade.  To  achieve  this  was  worthy  of  the 
Irish-Italian's  talents.  But  the  little  dining  room  was 
littered  with  samples  of  the  travellers'  goods:  clothing  for 
repatriated  refugees,  hospital  supplies;  papier-mache 
splints,  and  even  legs;  shoes,  stockings,  medicines;  soup- 
tablets,  and  chocolates.  The  O'Farrells  might  be  doing 
evil,  but  good  would  apparently  come  from  it  for  many. 
I  could  hardly  advise  the  Becketts  against  giving  money, 
even  though  I  suspected  that  most  of  it  would  stick  to 
O'Farrell's  fingers — even  though  I  knew  that  the  hope  of  it 
consoled  Signer  Giulio  di  Napoli  for  leaving  me  in  my  safe 
niche.  Yes,  that  was  his  consolation,  I  realized.  And — 
there  might  be  something  more  which  I  did  not  yet  foresee. 
Still,  being  no  better  than  he  was,  I  was  coward  enough  to 
hold  my  peace. 

This  was  the  situation  when  we  set  out  for  Nancy,  our 
big  car  running  slowly,  in  order  not  to  outpace  the  rickety 
Red  Cross  cab.  We  were  not  allowed  by  the  military 
authorities  to  enter  Toul,  so  our  way  took  us  through 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  99 

delightful  old  Commercy,  birthplace  of  Madeleines.  Of 
course  the  town  had  things  to  make  it  famous,  long  before 
the  day  of  the  shell-shaped  cakelets  which  all  true  sons 
and  daughters  of  France  adore.  Somebody  founded  it  in 
the  ninth  century,  when  the  bishops  of  Metz  were  the  great 
overlords  of  its  lords.  It  was  a  serious  little  city  then,  and 
Benedictine  monks  had  a  convent  there  in  the  Middle  Ages. 
The  fun  began  only  with  the  building  of  the  chateau,  and 
the  coming  of  the  Polish  Stanislas,  the  best  loved  and  last 
Duke  of  Lorraine.  He  used  to  divide  his  years  between 
Nancy,  Luneville,  and  Commercy;  and  once  upon  a  time, 
in  the  third  of  these  chateaux,  the  chef  had  a  chere  amie 
named  Madeleine.  There  wTas  to  be  a  fete,  and  the  lover 
of  Madeleine  was  racking  his  tired  brain  to  invent  some 
new  dainty  for  it.  "/  have  thought  of  something  which 
can  make  you  famous/'  announced  the  young  woman,  who 
was  a  budding  genius  as  a  cook.  "But,  mon  cher,  it  is 
my  secret.  Even  to  you  I  will  not  give  it  for  nothing.  I 
will  sell  it  at  a  price." 

The  chef  feigned  indifference;  but  each  moment  counted. 
The  Duke  always  paid  in  praise  and  gold  for  a  successful 
new  dish,  especially  a  cake,  for  he  was  fond  of  sweets. 
When  Madeleine  boasted  that  her  "inspiration"  took  the 
form  of  a  cake,  the  man  could  resist  no  longer.  The  price 
asked  was  marriage — no  less,  and  paid  in  advance !  But  it 
turned  out  not  excessive.  The  feather-light,  shell-shaped 
cakes  were  the  success  of  the  feast;  and  when  Duke 
Stanislas  heard  their  history,  he  insisted  that  they  should 
be  named  Madeleines — "after  their  mother." 

Even  in  war  days,  "Madeleines  de  Commercy"  is  the 
first  cry  which  greets  the  traveller  entering  town.  Jim,  it 


100  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

seems,  had  a  charming  habit  of  sending  to  his  mother  at 
home  a  specimen  of  the  cake,  or  confiture,  or  bonbon,  for 
which  each  place  he  visited  abroad  was  famed.  These 
things  used  to  reach  her  in  jars  or  boxes  adorned  with  the 
coat-of-arms  and  photographs  of  the  city  concerned — a 
procession  of  surprises:  and  I  think  as  she  bought  Made 
leines  of  Commercy  she  moistened  them  with  a  few  tears. 

I  expected  to  find  Nancy  beautiful,  since  for  so  long  it 
was  the  capital  of  proud  Lorraine,  but  I  hadn't  guessed 
how  beautiful  or  individual.  Now  I  shall  always  in  future 
see  the  details  of  each  splendid  square  and  park  by  shutting 
niy  eyes  and  calling  the  vision  to  come — as  Brian  does. 

We  drove  straight  to  the  door  of  a  fascinating,  old- 
fashioned  hotel  in  the  most  celebrated  square  of  all,  the 
Place  Stanislas;  but  we  didn't  go  in.  We  couldn't  stolidly 
turn  our  backs  upon  the  magic  picture,  lit  by  a  sudden 
radiance  of  sunshine,  for  in  another  moment  the  fairy -like 
effect  might  fade.  Yes,  "fairy-like"  is  the  word;  and  as 
our  two  cars  drew  up — like  Dignity  and  Impudence — I  had 
the  feeling  that  we'd  arrived  in  the  capital  of  fairyland  to 
visit  the  king  and  queen. 

It  was  I  who  described  the  scene  to  Brian:  the  eighteenth- 
century  perfection  of  the  buildings,  each  one  harmoniously 
proportioned  to  suit  the  others;  the  town  hall,  with  its 
wonderful  clock;  the  palace;  the  theatre,  and  the  rest  of 
the  happy  architectural  family  reared  by  Duke  Stanislas; 
each  with  its  roof -decor  at  ion  of  carved  stone  vases,  and 
graceful  statues  miraculously  missed  so  far  by  German 
bombs;  the  lace-like  filigree  of  wrought  iron  and  gold  on 
flag-hung  balconies  or  gates;  the  gilded  Arch  of  Triumph 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  101 

leading  into  the  garden  of  the  Place  Carriere — a  gorgeous 
glitter  of  decoration  which  won  for'  Nancy  her  alias,  "City 
of  Golden  Doors,"  and  now  has  to  be  "camouflaged"'  for 
enemy  aeroplanes.  It  was  1  who  -made  the  list  of  stage 
properties,  but  it  was  Brian  who  filled  the  stage  with 
actors  and  actresses,  in  their  proper  parts. 

He  called  upon  the  bronze  statue  of  Stanislas  to  come 
down  from  its  high  pedestal,  and  appear  before  us  in  flesh, 
happy  to  be  Duke  of  Lorraine,  after  all  the  dethronings 
and  abdications  in  Poland;  a  most  respectable-looking 
monarch  despite  his  adventures  and  disguises  of  the  past. 
We  saw  him  in  a  powdered  perruque,  on  his  way  to  the  du 
cal  palace,  after  some  religious  ceremony  that  had  at 
tracted  crowds  of  loyal  Catholic  Lorrainers:  beside  him, 
his  good  wife  of  bourgeoise  soul  but  romantic  name,  Cath 
erine  Opalinska,  a  comfortable  woman,  too  large  for  the 
fashionable  robe  a  paniers;  with  the  pair,  their  daughter 
Marie,  proud  of  the  fate  foretold  by  a  fortune-teller,  that 
she  should  be  queen  of  France;  the  Royal  family,  and  the 
aristocrats  of  their  northern  court;  the  smart  Polish 
officers  in  uniform;  the  pretty,  coquettish  women,  and 
dark-faced  musicians  of  Hungary;  the  Swedish  philoso 
phers,  the  long-haired  Italian  artists;  and  above  all,  the 
beautiful  Marquise  de  Boufflers — rival  of  the  Queen — with 
her  little  dogs  and  black  pages;  all  these  "belonged"  to 
the  sunlit  picture,  where  our  modern  figures  seemed  out  of 
place  and  time.  The  noble  square,  with  its  vast  stretch  of 
gray  stone  pavement — worn  satin-smooth — its  carved 
gray  facades  of  palaces,  picked  out  with  gold,  and  its  vista 
of  copper  beeches  rose-red  against  a  sky  of  pearl,  had  been 
designed  as  a  sober  background  for  the  colour  and  fantastic 


102  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

fashion- of  the  eighteenth  century,  whereas  we  and  others 
like  us  but  added  an  extra  sober  note. 

I  noticed,  as  Brian  sketched  us  his  little  picture  of  the 
past,  that  Dierdre  0'Faii^lJ  'gazed  at  him,  as  if  at  some 
legendary  knight  in  whose  reality  she  did  not  believe.  It 
was  the  first  time  I  had  seen  any  change  in  the  sullen  face, 
but  it  was  a  change  to  interest  rather  than  sympathy.  She 
had  the  air  of  saying  in  her  mind:  "You  look  more  like  a 
St.  George,  stepped  down  from  a  stained-glass  window, 
than  an  ordinary  man  of  to-day.  You  seem  to  think  about 
everyone  else  before  yourself,  and  to  see  a  lot  more  with 
your  blind  eyes  than  we  see.  You  pretend  to  be  happy,  too, 
as  if  you  wanted  to  set  everybody  a  good  example.  But 
it's  all  a  pose — a  pose !  I  shall  study  you  till  I  find  you  out, 
a  trickster  like  the  rest  of  us." 

I  felt  a  sudden  stab  of  dislike  for  the  girl,  for  daring  to 
put  Brian  on  a  level  with  herself — and  me.  I  wanted  to 
punish  her  somehow,  wanted  to  make  the  little  wretch  pay 
for  her  impertinent  suspicions.  I  pushed  past  her  brus 
quely  to  stand  between  her  and  Brian.  "Let's  go  into  the 
hotel,"  I  said.  "It's  more  important  just  now  to  see  what 
our  rooms  are  like  than  to  play  with  the  ghosts  of  dukes." 

As  if  the  slighted  ghosts  protested,  there  came  a  loud, 
reproachful  wail  out  of  space.  Everyone  started,  and 
stared  in  all  directions.  Then  the  soberly  clad,  modern 
inhabitants  of  Nancy  glanced  skyward  as  they  crossed  the 
square  of  Stanislas.  Nobody  hurried,  yet  nobody  stopped. 
Men,  women,  and  children  pursued  their  way  at  the  same 
leisurely  pace  as  before,  except  that  their  chins  were  raised. 
I  realized  then  that  the  ghostly  wail  was  the  warning  cry 
of  a  siren:  "Take  cover!  Enemy  aeroplanes  sighted!"  But 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  103 

there  was  the  monotony  of  boredom  in  the  voice,  and  in  the 
air  with  which  passers-by  received  the  news. 

"Oh,  lord,  here  I  go  again!"  the  weary  siren  sighed. 

"Third  time  to-day,  mon  Dieu  1"  grumbled  a  very  old 
man  to  a  very  blase  porter,  who  dutifully  shot  out  of  the 
hotel  to  rescue  our  luggage,  if  not  us,  from  possible  though 
improbable  danger.  We  let  him  haul  in  our  bags,  but  re 
mained  glued  to  the  pavement,  utterly  absorbed  and  fas 
cinated,  waiting  for  the  show  to  begin. 

We  had  not  long  to  wait !  For  an  instant  the  pearl-pale 
zenith  shone  serenely  void.  Then,  heralded  by  a  droning 
noise  as  of  giant  bees,  and  a  vicious  spitting  of  shrapnel, 
high  overhead  sailed  a  wide-winged  black  bird,  chased  by 
four  other  birds  bigger,  because  nearer  earth.  They 
soared,  circling  closer,  closer — two  mounting  high,  two 
flying  low,  and  so  passed  westward,  while  the  sky  was 
spattered  with  shrapnel — long,  white  streaks  falling  slow 
and  straight,  like  tail-feathers  of  a  shot  eagle. 

There  was  scant  time  to  speak,  or  even  draw  an  excited 
breath  after  the  birds  had  disappeared,  because  they  were 
back  again,  hovering  so  high  that  they  were  changed  to 
insects. 

We  ought  to  have  scuttled  into  the  hotel,  but  somehow 
we  didn't  move,  although  people  in  the  square  seemed 
suddenly  to  realize  the  wisdom  of  prudence.  Some  van 
ished  into  doorways,  others  walked  faster — though  not 
one  of  those  haughty  Lorrainers  would  condescend  to 
run.  Forgetful  of  ourselves,  I  was  admiring  their  pride, 
when  an  angry  voice  made  me  jump. 

"You  pretend  that  everything  you  do,  good  or  bad,  is 
for  your  brother's  sake,  yet  you  let  him  risk  his  life — a 


104  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

blind  man ! — out  here  in  the  street  with  bombs  and  shrap 
nel  dropping  every  instant ! " 

It  was  Dierdre  O'Farrell  who  spoke,  and  we  glared  into 
each  other's  eyes  like  two  Kilkenny  cats — or  a  surprised 
Kilkenny  cat  and  a  spitfire  Kilkenny  kitten. 

A  moment  before,  I  had  been  longing  to  strike  at  her. 
Now  it  was  she  who  struck  at  me;  and  it  was  too  much, 
that  it  should  be  in  defence  of  my  own  brother!  The 
primitive  fishwife  within  me  rose  to  the  surface.  "Mind 
your  own  business!"  I  rudely  flung  at  her:  and  slipping 
my  arm  under  Brian's,  in  a  voice  of  curdled  cream  begged 
him  to  come  with  me  indoors. 

The  others  followed,  and  about  three  seconds  later  a 
bomb  fell  in  front  of  the  hotel.  It  was  a  "dud,"  and  did 
not  explode,  but  it  made  a  hole  in  the  pavement  and  sent  a 
jet  of  splintered  stone  into  the  air. 

Perhaps  the  girl  had  saved  us  from  death,  or  at  least 
from  disfiguring  wounds,  but  I  was  in  no  mood  to  thank 
her  for  that.  I  was  glad  I  had  been  a  fishwife,  and  I 
thought  Brian  lacked  his  usual  discernment  in  attributing 
hidden  qualities  to  such  a  person  as  Dierdre  O'Farrell. 

"Something's  bound  to  break,  if  we  don't  part  soon!" 
I  told  myself. 


CHAPTER  XII 

NANCY  is  one  of  "Jim's  towns,"  as  Mother  and 
Father  Beckett  say.     When,  with  Brian's  help, 
they  began  mapping  out  their  route,  they  decided 
to  "give  something  worth  while"  to  the  place,  and  to  all 
the  ruined  region  round  about,  when  they  had  learned 
what  form  would  be  best  for  their  donation  to  take. 
Some  friend  in  Paris  gave  them  a  letter  to  the  Prefet,  and 
we  had  not  been  hi  Nancy  an  hour  when  he  and  his  wife 
called. 

I'd  never  met  a  real,  live  prefet.  The  word  sounded 
stiff  and  official.  When  Mother  Beckett  tremulously 
asked  me  to  act  as  interpreter,  I  dimly  expected  to  meet 
two  polite  automata,  as  little  human  as  creatures  of 
flesh  and  blood  can  be.  Instead,  I  saw  a  perfectly  de 
lightful  pair  of  Parisians,  with  the  warm,  kind 
manner  one  thinks  of  as  southern.  They  were  frankly 
pleased  that  a  millionaire's  purse  promised  to  open  for 
Nancy.  Monsieur  le  Prefet  offered  himself  to  the  Becketts 
as  guide  on  a  sightseeing  expedition  next  day,  and 
Madame,  the  Prefet's  wife,  proposed  to  exhibit  her  two 
thousand  children,  old  and  young,  refugees  housed  in  what 
once  had  been  barracks.  "The  Germans  pretend  to  be 
lieve  they  are  barracks  still,  full  of  soldiers,  as  an  excuse 
for  bombs,"  she  said.  "But  you  shall  see!  And  if  you 
wish — if  you  have  time — we  will  take  you  to  see  also  what 

105 


106  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

the  Boches  have  done  to  some  of  our  other  towns — ah, 
but  beautiful  towns,  of  an  importance!  Luneville, 
and  Gerbevillers,  and  more — many  more.  You  should 
know  what  they  are  like  before  you  go  on  to  the  Grande 
Couronne,  where  Nancy  was  saved  in  1914." 

Of  course  the  Becketts  "wished."  '  Of  course  they  had 
time.  "Molly,  tell  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Prefet  we've  got  more 
time  than  anything  else!"  said  the  old  man  eagerly. 
"Oh,  and  I  guess  we've  got  a  little  money,  too,  enough  to 
spread  around  among  those  other  places,  as  well  as  here. 
This  is  going  to  be  something  like  what  Jim  would  want  at 
last!" 

When  the  Prefet  and  his  wife  rose  to  go,  they  invited  not 
only  the  Becketts  but  Brian  and  me  to  dine  at  their  house 
that  night.  Mother  Beckett,  on  the  point  of  accepting  for 
us  all,  hesitated.  The  hesitation  had  to  be  explained :  and 
the  explanation  was — the  OTarrells.  I  had  hoped  we 
might  be  spared  them,  but  it  was  not  to  be.  Our  host 
and  hostess,  hearing  of  the  travellers  of  the  Red  Cross, 
insisted  that  they  must  come,  too.  Mrs.  Beckett  was 
sure  they  would  both  be  charmed,  but  as  it  turned  out,  she 
was  only  half  right.  Mr.  OTarrell  was  charmed.  His 
sister  had  a  headache,  and  intended  to  spend  the  evening 
in  her  room. 

Padre,  if  I  wrote  stories,  I  should  like  to  write  one 
with  that  prefet  and  his  whole  family  for  the  heroes  and 
heroines  of  it ! 

There  is  a  small  son.  There  are  five  daughters,  each 
prettier  than  the  others,  the  youngest  a  tiny  fillette,  the 
eldest  twenty  at  most;  and  the  mother  in  looks  an  elder 
sister.  When  the  war  broke  out  they  were  living  in 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  107 

Paris,  the  father  in  some  high  political  post:  but  he  was 
by  ancestry  a  man  of  Lorraine,  and  his  first  thought  was 
to  help  defend  the  home  of  his  forbears.  The  Meurthe-et- 
Moselle,  with  Nancy  as  its  centre  and  capital,  was  a 
terrible  danger  zone,  with  the  sword  of  the  enemy  pointed 
at  its  heart,  but  the  lover  of  Lorraine  asked  to  become 
prefet  in  place  of  a  man  about  to  leave,  and  his  family 
rallied  round  him.  There  at  Nancy,  they  have  been  ever 
since  those  days,  through  all  the  bombardments  by  Big 
Berthas  and  Taubes.  When  houses  and  hotels  were 
being  blown  to  bits  by  naval  guns,  thirty-five  kilometres 
away,  the  daily  life  of  the  family  went  on  as  if  in  peace. 
As  a  man,  the  Prefet  longed  to  send  his  wife  and  children 
far  away.  As  a  servant  of  France  he  thought  best  to  let 
them  stop,  to  "set  an  example  of  calmness."  And  if  they 
had  been  bidden  to  go,  they  would  still  have  stayed. 

The  Prefet's  house  is  one  of  the  eighteenth-century 
palaces  of  the  Place  Stanislas;  and  in  the  story  I'd  like  to 
write,  I  should  put  a  description  of  their  drawing  room, 
and  the  scene  after  dinner  that  night. 

Imagine  a  background  of  decorative  walls,  adorned  with 
magnificent  portraits  (one  of  the  best  is  Stanislas,  and 
better  still  is  Louis  XVI,  a  proud  baby  in  the  arms  of  a 
handsome  mother);  imagine  beautiful  Louis  XV  chairs, 
tables,  and  sofas  scattered  about,  with  the  light  of  prism- 
hung  chandeliers  glinting  on  old  brocades  and  tapestries: 
flowers  everywhere,  in  Chinese  bowls  and  tall  vases; 
against  this  background  a  group  of  lovely  girls  multiplied 
by  many  mirrors  into  a  large  company ;  be-medalled  officers 
in  pale  blue  uniforms,  handing  coffee  to  the  ladies,  or  taking 
from  silver  dishes  carried  by  children  the  delicious  maca- 


108  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

roons  which  are  to  Nancy  what  Madeleines  are  to  Com- 
mercy.  Imagine  long  windows  opening  into  a  garden: 
rosy  lamplight  streaming  out,  silver  moonlight  streaming 
in;  music;  the  wonderful  voice  of  a  man  (Julian  O'Farrell) 
singing  the  "Marseillaise,"  the  "Star-Spangled  Banner," 
and  "Tipperary."  Then  into  the  midst  of  this  breaking 
the  tiresome  whine  of  the  siren. 

"What?  A  fourth  time  to-day?"  cries  somebody- 
"These  creatures  will  wear  out  their  welcome  if  they're 
not  careful!" 

A  laugh  follows,  to  drown  the  bark  of  shrapnel,  and  a 
general  shrugging  of  the  shoulders.  But  suddenly  comes  a 
cry  that  la  petite — the  baby  daughter  of  the  house,  sitting 
up  in  our  honour — has  run  into  the  garden. 

The  elder  girls  are  not  afraid  for  themselves,  the  great 
bombardments  have  given  them  a  quiet  contempt  of 
mere  Taubes.  But  for  the  little  sister ! — that  is  different. 
Instantly  it  seems  that  all  the  bombs  Germany  has  ever 
made  may  be  falling  like  iron  rain  on  that  curly  head  out 
there  among  the  autumn  lilies.  Everybody  rushes  to 
the  rescue:  and  there  is  the  child,  sweet  as  a  cherub  and 
cool  as  a  cucumber,  in  the  din.  She  stands  on  the  lawn, 
chin  in  air,  baby  thumb  on  baby  nose  for  the  Taube  caught 
in  a  silver  web  of  searchlights. 

"Sale  oiseau  /"  her  defiant  cry  shrills  up.  "Just  like 
you,  to  come  on  my  grown-up  evening!  But  you  shan't 
spoil  it.  No,  sister,  I  don't  want  to  go  in.  I  came  out  to 
say  good-night  to  the  chickens  and  rabbits,  and  tell  them 
not  to  be  afraid." 

Behind  the  lilies  and  late  roses  and  laurels  is  quite  a 
menagerie  of  domestic  animals,  housed  among  growing 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  109 

potatoes,  beans,  and  tomatoes.  C'est  la  guerre!  But  rab 
bits  and  chickens  are  robbed  of  their  consolation;  the  baby 
is  bundled  into  the  house;  and,  once  she  is  safe —  safe  as 
any  one  can  be  safe  in  bombarded  Nancy ! — nobody  thinks 
about  the  air  raid.  Que  voulez-vous  ?  If  one  thought  about 
these  inings,  smiles  a  blonde  girl  in  white,  they  might  really 
get  upon  one's  nerves,  and  that  would  never  do! 

"It  is  this  moonlight,"  she  explains.  "They  will  be 
back  again  once  or  twice  to-night,  perhaps.  But  the 
streets  will  be  as  full  as  ever  of  poilus  en  permission,  walking 
with  then*  sweethearts,  in  spite  of  the  hateful  things ! " 

One  makes  one's  adieux  early  in  war  times;  but  the 
moonlight  was  so  wonderful  on  that  Taube-ridden  night 
that  Brian  said  he  felt  it  like  a  cool  silver  shower  on  his 
eyelids.  "I  believe  I'm  developing  night-eyes!"  he 
laughed  to  me,  as  we  walked  ahead  of  the  Becketts  and 
Julian  O'Farrell,  on  our  way  across  the  gleaming  square 
to  our  hotel.  "Surely  there  won't  be  another  raid  for  an 
hour  or  two?  Let's  take  a  walk.  Let's  go  into  the  old 
town,  and  try  to  see  some  ghosts." 

"Yes,  let's!  "I  echoed. 

I  said  good-night  sweetly  to  the  Becketts  and  stiffly 
to  O'Farrell.  Brian  was  equally  cordial  to  all  three,  and  I 
feared  that  O'Farrell  might  be  encouraged  to  offer  his  com 
pany.  But  his  self-assurance  stopped  short  of  that.  He 
went  meekly  into  the  darkened  hotel  with  the  old  couple, 
and  I  turned  away  triumphant,  with  my  arm  in  Brian's. 

The  clock  of  the  Town  Hall  struck  ten,  chimed,  waited 
for  the  church  clock  to  approve  and  confirm,  then  repeated 
all  that  it  had  said  and  sung  a  minute  before. 


110  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

We  were  going  to  look  for  ghosts  of  kings  and  dukes  and 
queens;  and  like  ghosts  ourselves,  we  stepped  from  moon 
lit  shores  into  pools  of  shadow,  and  back  to  moonlit  shores 
again;  past  the  golden  Arch  of  Triumph,  which  Stanislas 
built  in  honour  of  his  daughter's  marriage  with  Louis  XV; 
through  the  Carriere,  where  the  tops  of  tall  copper-beeches 
caught  the  light  with  dull  red  gleams,  like  the  glow  of  a 
carbuncle;  past  the  sleeping  palace  of  Stanislas,  into  the 
old  "nursery  garden"  of  the  Pepiniere,  to  the  sombre 
Porte  de  la  Craffe  whose  two  huge,  pointed  towers  and 
great  wall  guard  the  old  town  of  Duke  Rene  II. 

There  we  stopped,  because  of  all  places  this  dark  corner 
was  the  place  for  Nancy's  noblest  ghost  to  walk,  Rene  the 
Romantic,  friend  of  Americo  Vespucius  when  Americo 
needed  friends;  Rene  the  painter,  whose  pictures  still 
adorn  old  churches  of  Provence,  where  he  was  once  a 
captive :  Rene,  whose  memory  never  dies  in  Nancy,  though 
his  body  died  500  years  ago. 

What  if  he  should  rise  from  his  tomb  in  the  church  of  the 
Cordeliers,  or  come  down  off  his  little  bronze  horse  in  the 
Place  St.  Epvre  as  ghosts  may  by  moonlight,  to  walk  with 
his  fair  wife  Isabella  through  the  huddled  streets  of  the  old 
town,  gazing  at  the  wreckage  made  by  the  greatest  war  of 
history?  What  would  he  think  of  civilization,  he  who 
held  his  dukedom  against  the  star  warrior  of  the  century, 
Charles  the  Bold?  War  was  lawless  enough  in  his  day. 
When  avenging  a  chancellor's  murder,  the  Nancians 
hanged  100  Burgundian  officers  on  a  church  tower  for  the 
besiegers  outside  the  city  wall  to  see.  But  the  "  noble 
Gauls  "whom  Julius  Csesar  called  "knights  of  chivalry," 
would  have  drawn  the  line  then  at  showering  bombs  from 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  111 

the  sky  on  women  and  children.  We  fancied,  Brian  and  I, 
that  after  a  walk  round  Nancy  Rene  and  Isabella  would 
retire,  sadder  and  wiser  ghosts,  content  to  have  finished 
their  lives  in  gentler  times  than  ours.  Back  into  the 
shadows  might  they  fade,  to  sleep  again,  and  take  up 
their  old  dream  where  the  noise  of  twentieth-century 
shrapnel  had  snapped  its  thread.  Their  best  dream  must 
be,  we  thought,  of  their  battle  of  Nancy:  Charles  the 
Bold  on  his  black  war-horse,  surrounded  by  Burgundian 
barons  in  armour,  shouting,  and  waving  their  banners 
with  standards  of  ivory  and  gold;  Charles  of  the  dark 
locks,  and  brilliant  eyes  which  all  men  feared  and  some 
women  loved;  Charles  laughing  with  joy  in  the  chance  of 
open  battle  at  last,  utterly  confident  of  its  end,  because 
the  young  duke — once  his  prisoner — had  reinforced  a 
small  army  with  mercenaries,  Swiss  and  Alsatians. 
At  most  Rene  had  15,000  soldiers,  and  Charles  believed 
his  equal  band  of  Burgundians  worth  ten  times  the  paid 
northerners,  as  man  to  man. 

From  the  church  tower  where  Charles's  men  had  hung — • 
where  St.  Epvre  stands  now — Rene  could  see  the  enemy 
troops  assembling,  headed  by  the  Duke  of  Burgundy,  in 
his  glittering  helmet  adorned  with  its  device  of  an  open- 
jawed  lion.  He  could  even  seen  the  gorgeous  tent  whose 
tapestried  magnificence  spies  had  reported  (a  magnificence 
owned  by  Nancy's  museum  in  our  day!),  and  there  seemed 
to  his  eyes  no  end  to  the  defile  of  spears,  of  strange  engines 
for  scaling  walls,  and  glittering  battle-axes.  One  last 
prayer,  a  blessing  by  the  pale  priest,  and  young  Rene's 
own  turn  to  lead  had  come — a  slight  adversary  for  great 
Charles,  but  with  a  heart  as  bold!  The  trumpet  blast  of 


112  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

La  Riviere,  sounding  the  charge  of  Lorraine,  went  to 
his  head  like  wine.  He  laughed  when  Herter's  mountain 
men  began  to  sing  "Le  taureau  d'Uri"  and  "La  vache 
d'Unterwald, "  to  remind  the  proud  Burgundian  of  his 
defeats  at  Granson  and  Morat.  Then  came  the  crash  of 
armour  against  armour,  blade  against  blade,  and  the  day 
ended  for  Nancy  according  to  Rene's  prayers.  The  south 
erners  fled  and  died;  and  two  days  later,  Rene  was  gazing 
down  at  the  drowned  body  of  Charles  the  Bold,  dragged 
out  of  a  pond.  Yes,  a  good  dream  for  ghosts  of  the 
chivalrous  age  to  retire  into,  and  shut  the  door!  But  for 
us,  in  our  throbbing  flesh  and  blood,  this  present  was  worth 
suffering  in  for  the  glory  of  the  future. 

There  were  other  ghosts  to  meet  in  Nancy's  old  town  of 
narrow  streets  where  moonlight  trickled  in  a  narrow  rill. 
Old,  old  ghosts,  far  older  than  the  town  as  we  saw  it: 
Odebric  of  the  eleventh  century,  who  owned  the  strongest 
castle  in  France  and  the  most  beautiful  wife,  and  fought 
the  bishops  of  Metz  and  Treves  together,  because  they 
did  not  approve  of  the  lady;  Henri  VI  of  England  riding 
through  the  walled  city  with  his  bride,  Marguerite,  by 
his  side :  ghostly  funeral  processions  of  dead  dukes,  whose 
strange,  Oriental  obsequies  were  famed  throughout  the 
world;  younger  and  more  splendid  ghosts:  Louis  XIII  and 
Richelieu  entering  in  triumph  when  France  had  fought  and 
won  Lorraine,  only  to  give  it  back  by  bargaining  later; 
ghosts  of  stout  German  generals  who,  in  1871,  had  "bled 
the  town  white";  but  greater  than  all  ghosts,  the  noble 
reality  of  Foch  and  Castlenau,  who  saved  Nancy  in  1914, 
on  the  heights  of  La  Grande  Couronne. 

As  we  walked  back  to  the  new  town,  dazed  a  little  by  our 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  113 

deep  plunge  into  the  centuries,  I  heard  my  name  called 
from  across  the  street.  "Miss  O'Malley — wait,  please! 
It's  Julian  O'Farrell.  Have  you  seen  my  sister?  " 

Brian  and  I  stopped  short,  and  O'Farrell  joined  us, 
panting  and  out  of  breath.  "She's  not  with  you?"  he 
exclaimed.  "I  hoped  she  would  be.  I've  been  searching 
everywhere — she  wasn't  in  the  hotel  when  I  got  home,  and 
it's  close  to  midnight.  " 


CHAPTER  XIII 

I  FELT  unsympathetic,  and  wouldn't  have  cared  if 
Miss  Dierdre  O'Farrell  had  flown  off  on  a  broomstick, 
or  been  kidnapped  by  a  German  aviator.  My  heart, 
however,  was  sure  that  nothing  had  happened  and  I  sus 
pected  that  her  brother  had  trumped  up  an  excuse  to  join 
us.  It  vexed  me  that  Brian  should  show  concern.  If  only 
he  knew  how  the  girl  had  looked  at  him  a  few  hours  ago ! 

"Couldn't  they  tell  you  in  the  hotel  at  what  time  she 
went  out?  "  he  enquired. 

But  no!  According  to  O'Farrell,  his  sister  had  not  been 
seen.  He  had  found  her  door  unlocked,  the  room  empty, 
and  her  hat  and  coat  missing.  "She  told  me  she  was  going 
to  bed,"  he  added.  "  But  the  bed  hasn't  been  disturbed." 

"Nor  need  you  be,  I  think,"  said  I.  "Perhaps  your 
sister  wants  to  frighten  you.  Children  love  that  sort  of 
thing.  It  draws  attention  to  themselves.  And  some 
times  they  don't  outgrow  the  fancy." 

"Especially  Suffragettes  and  Sinn  Feiners,"  O'Farrell 
played  up  to  me,  unoffended.  "Still,  as  a  brother  of  one, 
I'm  bound  to  search,  if  it  takes  all  night.  A  sister's  a 
sister.  And  mine  is  quite  a  valuable  asset."  He  tossed 
me  this  hint  with  a  Puck-like  air  of  a  private  under 
standing  established  between  us.  Yes,  "Puck-like" 
describes  him:  a  Puck  at  the  same  time  merry  and 
malicious,  never  to  be  counted  upon ! 

114 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  115 

"I  feel  that  Miss  O'Farrell  went  out  to  take  a  walk 
because  she  was  restless,  and  perhaps  not  very  happy," 
Brian  reproached  us  both.  "Something  may  have  hap 
pened — remember  we're  in  the  war  zone." 

"No  one  in  Nancy's  likely  to  forget  that!"  said  I,  dully 
resenting  his  defence  of  the  enemy.  "Brushing  bombs  out 
of  their  back  hair  every  ten  minutes  or  so !  And  listen — 
don't  you  hear  big  guns  booming  now,  along  the  front? 
The  German  lines  are  only  sixteen  kilometres  from  here." 

Brian  didn't  answer.  His  brain  was  pursuing  Dierdre 
O'Farrell,  groping  after  her  through  the  night.  "If  she 
went  out  before  that  air  raid,  while  we  were  at  the  Prefet's," 
he  suggested,  "she  may  have  had  to  take  refuge  somewhere 
— she  may  have  been  hurt " 

"By  Jove!"  Puck  broke  in.  "It  scares  me  when  you 
say  that.  You're  a — a  sort — of  prophet,  you  know!  I 
must  find  out  what  hospitals  there  are " 

"We'll  go  with  you  to  the  hotel,"  Brian  promised. 
"They'll  know  there  about  the  hospitals.  And  if  the 
Prefet's  still  up,  he'll  phone  for  us  officially,  I'm  sure." 

"It's  you  who  are  the  practical  one,  after  all!"  cried 
O'Farrell.  And  I  guessed  from  a  sudden  uprush  of  Irish 
accent  that  his  anxiety  had  grown  sincere. 

We  hurried  home ;  Brian  seeming  almost  to  guide  us,  for 
without  his  instinct  for  the  right  way  we  would  twice  have 
taken  a  wrong  turning.  As  we  came  into  the  Place  Stanis 
las,  still  a  pale  oasis  of  moonlight,  I  saw  standing  in  front 
of  the  hotel  two  figures,  black  as  if  cut  out  of  velvet.  One, 
that  of  a  man,  was  singularly  tall  and  thin,  as  a  Mephis- 
topheles  of  the  stage.  The  other  was  that  of  a  woman  in  a 
long  cloak,  small  and  slight  as  a  child  of  fourteen.  Dierdre 


116  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

O'Farrell,  of  course!  It  could  be  no  one  else.  But  who 
was  the  man?  A  dim  impression  that  the  figure  was 
vaguely  familiar,  or  had  been  familiar  long  ago,  teased  my 
brain.  But  surely  I  could  never  have  seen  it  before. 

"Hurrah!  There  she  is!"  cried  O'Farrell,  "alive  and 
on  her  pins!" 

At  the  sound  of  his  voice,  the  velvet  silhouettes  stirred. 
They  had  turned  to  look  at  us,  and  a  glint  of  moonlight 
made  the  two  faces  white  and  blank  as  masks.  O'Farrell 
waved  his  hand,  and  I  was  obliged  to  quicken  my  steps  to 
keep  pace  with  Brian:  "I  suppose  she  got  lost — serve  her 
right! — and  the  beanpole  has  escorted  her  home,"  grum 
bled  Puck;  but  as  he  spoke,  the  beanpole  in  question  hur 
riedly  made  a  gesture  of  salute,  and  stalked  away  with 
enormous  strides.  In  an  instant  he  was  engulfed  by  a 
shadow-wave  and  his  companion  was  left  to  meet  us  alone. 
I  thought  it  would  be  like  her  to  whisk  into  the  hotel  and 
vanish  before  we  could  arrive,  but  she  did  not.  She  stood 
still,  with  a  fierce  little  air  of  defiance;  and  as  we  came  near 
I  saw  that  under  the  thrown-back  cloak  her  left  arm  was  in 
a  white  sling. 

Her  brother  saw  it  also.  "Hullo,  what  have  you  been 
up  to?"  he  wanted  to  know.  "You've  given  us  the  scare 
of  our  lives ! " 

"Thank  you,"  the  girl  said.  "Please  speak  for  your 
self!" 

"He  may  speak  for  us,  too,"  Brian  assured  her.  "We 
thought  of  the  air  raid.  And  even  now,  I  don't  feel  as  if 
we'd  been  wrong.  Your  voice  sounds  as  if  you  were  in 
pain .  You've  been  hurt ! " 

"It's  nothing  at  all,"  she  answered  shortly,  but  her  tone 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  117 

softened  slightly  for  Brian.  Even  she  had  her  human  side, 
it  seemed.  "A  window  splintered  near  where  I  was,  and  I 
got  a  few  bits  of  glass  in  my  arm.  They're  out  now — every 
one.  A  doctor  came,  and  looked  after  me.  You  see, 
Jule!"  and  she  nodded  her  head  at  the  sling.  "Now  I'm 
going  in  to  bed.  Good -night!" 

"Wait,  and  let  my  sister  help  you,"  Brian  proposed 
"She's  a  splendid  nurse.     I  know  she'll  be  delighted." 

"Sweet  of  her!"  sneered  the  girl.  "But  I'm  a  trained 
nurse,  too,  and  I  can  take  care  of  myself.  It's  only  my  left 
arm  that's  hurt,  and  a  scratch  at  that.  I  don't  need  any 
help  from  any  one." 

"Was  that  man  we  saw  the  doctor  who  put  you  in  your 
sling?"  asked  "Jule,"  in  the  blunt  way  brothers  have  of 
catching  up  their  sisters. 

"Yes,  he  was,"  she  grudged. 

"Why  did  he  run  away?  Didn't  lie  want  to  be 
thanked?" 

"He  did  not.     Besides " 

"Besides—what?" 

"He  particularly  didn't  wish  to  meet — one  of  our  party. 
Now,  I  shan't  say  a  word  more  about  him.  So  you  needn't 
ask  questions.  I'm  tired.  I  want  to  go  to  bed." 

With  this  ultimatum,  she  bolted  into  the  hotel,  leaving 
the  three  of  us  speechless  for  a  few  seconds.  I  suppose 
each  was  wondering,  "Am  /  the  one  the  doctor  didn't  want 
to  meet?"  Then  I  remembered  my  impression  of  having 
known  that  tall,  thin  figure  long  ago,  and  I  was  seized  with 
certainty  that  the  mysterious  person  had  fled  from  me. 
At  all  events,  I  was  sure  Miss  O'Farrell  wished  me  to  think 
so  by  way  of  being  as 'aggravating  as  she  possibly  could. 


118  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

"Well,  I'm  blessed  /"  Puck  exploded. 

"Are  you?"  I  doubted.  And  I  couldn't  resist  adding, 
"I  thought  your  sister  always  did  what  you  wanted? " 

"In  the  end  she  does,"  he  upheld  his  point.  "But — 
just  lately — she's  bewitched!  Some  saint  is  needed  to 
remove  the  ban." 

I  thought  the  saint  was  only  too  near  her  hand !  Whether 
that  hand  would  scratch  or  strike  I  couldn't  guess;  but  one 
gesture  was  as  dangerous  as  the  other. 

What  with  thinking  of  my  own  horridness  and  other 
people's,  wondering  about  the  shadow-man,  and  being 
roused  by  the  usual  early  morning  air  raid,  bed  didn't 
mother  me  with  its  wonted  calming  influence.  Excite 
ment  was  a  tonic  for  the  next  day,  however;  and  a  bath  and 
coffee  braced  me  for  an  expedition  with  the  Prefet's  wife 
and  daughters,  and  the  Becketts.  They  took  us  over  the 
two  huge  casernes,  turned  into  homes  of  refuge  for  two  thou 
sand  people  from  the  invaded  towns  and  villages  of  Lor 
raine  :  old  couples,  young  women  (of  course  the  young  men 
are  fighting) ,  and  children.  We  saw  the  skilled  embroid 
erers  embroidering,  and  the  unskilled  making  sandbags  for 
the  trenches ;  we  saw  the  schools ;  and  the  big  girls  at  work 
upon  trousseaux  for  their  future,  or  happily  cooking  in  the 
kitchens.  We  saw  the  gardens  where  the  refugees  tended 
their  own  growing  fruit  and  vegetables.  We  saw  the 
church — once  a  gymnasium — and  an  immense  cinema 
theatre,  decorated  by  the  ladies  of  Nancy,  with  the  Prefet's 
wife  and  daughters  at  their  head.  On  the  way  home  we 
dropped  into  the  biggest  of  Nancy's  beautiful  shops,  to 
behold  the  work  of  last  night's  bombs.  The  whole  sky 
light-roof  had  been  smashed  at  dawn;  but  the  glass  had 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  119 

been  swept  away,  and  pretty  girls  were  selling  pretty  hats 
and  frocks  as  if  nothing  had  happened — except  that  the 
wind  of  heaven  was  blowing  their  hair  across  their  smiling 
eyes. 

After  luncheon  at  which  Dierdre  O'Farrell  didn't 
appear,  the  Prefet  took  us  to  the  streets  which  had  suffered 
most  from  the  big  gun  bombardment — fine  old  houses 
destroyed  with  a  completeness  of  which  the  wickedest 
aeroplane  bombs  are  incapable.  "Any  minute  they  may 
begin  again,"  the  Prefet  said.  "But  sufficient  for  the 
day !  We  suffered  so  much  in  a  few  hours  three  years  ago, 
that  nothing  which  has  happened  to  us  since  has  counted. 
Nancy  was  saved  for  us,  to  have  and  hold.  Wounded  she 
might  be,  and  we  also.  But  she  was  saved.  We  could 
bear  the  rest." 

We  made  him  tell  us  about  those  "few  hours"  of  suffer 
ing  :  and  this  was  the  story.  It  was  on  the  7th  of  Septem 
ber,  1914,  when  the  fate  of  Nancy  hung  in  the  balance.  An 
immense  horde  of  Germans  came  pouring  along  the  Seille, 
crossing  the  river  by  four  bridges:  Chambley,  Moncel, 
Brin,  and  Bioncourt.  Everyone  knew  that  the  order  was 
to  take  Nancy  at  any  price,  and  open  the  town  for  the 
Kaiser  to  march  in,  triumphant,  as  did  Louis  XIII  of 
France  centuries  ago.  William  was  said  to  be  waiting 
with  10,000  men  of  the  Prussian  Guard,  in  the  wood  of 
Morel,  ready  for  his  moment.  Furiously  the  Germans 
worked  to  place  their  huge  cannon  on  the  hills  of  Don- 
court,  Bourthecourt,  and  Rozebois.  Villages  burned  like 
card  houses.  Church  bells  tolled  as  their  towers  rocked 
and  fell.  Forests  blazed,  and  a  rain  of  bombs  poured  over 
the  country  from  clouds  of  flame  and  smoke.  Amance 


120  EVERYMAN 'S  LAND  , 

was  lost,  and  with  it  hope  also;  for  beyond,  the  road  lay 
open  for  a  rush  on  Nancy,  seemingly  past  the  power  of 
man  to  defend.  Still,  man  did  defend!  If  the  French 
could  hold  out  against  ten  times  their  number  for  a  few 
hours,  there  was  one  chance  in  a  thousand  that  reinforce 
ments  might  arrive.  After  Velaine  fell  next  day,  and  the 
defile  between  the  two  mountain-hills  of  Amance  swarmed 
with  yelling  Uhlans,  the  French  still  held.  They  did  not 
aope,  but  they  fought.  How  they  fought!  And  at  the 
breaking  point,  as  if  by  miracle,  appeared  the  reinforcing 
tirailleurs. 

"This,"  said  the  Prefet,  "was  only  one  episode  in  the 
greatest  battle  ev«r  fought  for  Nancy,  but  it  was  the 
episode  in  which  the  town  was  saved. 

"You  know,"  he  went  on,  "that  Lorrainers  have  been 
ardent  Catholics  for  centuries.  In  the  Church  of  Bon-Se- 
cours  there's  a  virgin  which  the  people  credit  with  miracu 
lous  power.  Many  soldiers  in  the  worst  of  the  fighting 
were  sure  of  victory,  because  the  virgin  had  promised  that 
never  should  Nancy  be  taken  again  by  any  enemy  what 
ever." 

It  was  late  when  we  came  back  to  the  hotel,  and  while  I 
was  translating  the  Becketts'  gratitude  into  French  for 
the  Prefet,  the  O'Farrells  arrived  from  another  direction. 
The  brother  looked  pleased  to  see  us;  the  sister  looked 
distressed.  I  fancied  that  she  had  been  forced  or  persuaded 
to  point  out  the  scene  of  last  night's  adventure,  and  was 
returning  chastened  from  the  visit.  To  introduce  her  to 
the  Prefet  was  like  introducing  a  dog  as  it  strains  at  the 
leash,  but  Puck  performed  the  rite,  and  explained  her 
sling. 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

"Hurt  in  the  air  raid?"  the  Prefet  echoed.     "I  hope, 

Mademoiselle,  that  you  went  to  a  good  doctor.    That 
"i   » 

"The  doctor  came  to  her  on  the  spot,"  replied  Puck,  in 
his  perfect  French.  "It  seems  you  have  doctors  at  Nancy 
who  walk  the  streets,  when  there's  a  raid,  wandering  about 
to  pick  up  jobs,  and  refusing  payment." 

The  Prefet  laughed.  "Can  it  be,"  he  exclaimed,  "that 
Mademoiselle  has  been  treated  by  the  Wandering  Jew? 
Oh,  not  the  original  character,  but  an  extraordinary  fellow 
who  has  earned  that  name  in  our  neighbourhood  since  the 
war." 

"Was  that  what  he  called  himself?"  O'Farrell  turned' 
to  Dierdre.  I  guessed  that  Puck's  public  revelations  were 
vengeance  upon  her  for  unanswered  questions. 

"He  called  himself  nothing  at  all,"  the  girl  replied. 

"Ah,"  said  the  Prefet,  "then  he  was  the  Wandering*! 
Jew!  Let  me  see — I  think  you  are  planning  to  go  to 
Gerbeviller  and  Luneville  and  Vitrimont  to-morrow. 
Most  likely  you'll  meet  him  at  one  of  those  places.  And 
when  you  hear  his  story,  you'll  understand  why  he  haunts 
the  neighbourhood  like  a  beneficent  spirit." 

"But  must  we  wait  to  hear  the  story?  Please  tell  us 
now,"  I  pleaded.  "I'm  so  curious!" 

This  was  true.  I  burned  with  curiosity.  Also,  fatty 
degeneration  of  the  heart  prompted  me  to  annoy  Dierdre 
O'Farrell.  To  spite  me,  she  had  refused  to  talk  of  the 
doctor.  I  was  determined  to  hear  all  about  him  to  spite 
her.  You  see  to  what  a  low  level  I  have  fallen,  dear 
Padre! 

The  Prefet  said  that  if  we  would  go  home  with  him  and 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

have  tea  in  the  garden  (German  aeroplanes  permitting)  he 
would  tell  us  the  tale  of  the  Wandering  Jew.  We  all 
accepted,  save  Dierdre,  who  began  to  stammer  an  excuse; 
but  a  look  from  her  brother  nipped  it  in  the  bud.  He 
certainly  has  an  influence  over  the  girl,  against  which  she 
struggles  only  at  her  strongest.  To-day  she  looked  pale 
and  weak,  and  he  could  do  what  he  liked  with  her. 

He  liked  to  make  her  take  tea  at  the  Prefet's,  doubtless 
because  he'd  have  felt  bound  to  escort  the  invalid  to  her 
room,  had  she  insisted  on  going  there ! 

The  story  of  the  \Vandering  Jew  would  be  a  strange  one, 
anywhere  and  anyhow.  But  it's  more  than  strange  to  me, 
because  it  is  linked  with  my  past  life.  Still,  I  won't 
tell  it  from  my  point  of  view.  I'll  begin  with  the  Prefet's 
version. 

The  "Wandering  Jew"  really  is  a  Jew,  of  the  best  and 
most  intellectual  type.  His  name  is  Paul  Herter.  His 
father  was  a  man  of  Metz,  who  had  brought  to  German 
Lorraine  a  wife  from  Luneville.  Paul  is  thirty -five  now,  so 
you  see  he  wasn't  born  when  the  Metz  part  of  Lorraine 
became  German.  His  parents — French  at  heart — taught 
him  secretly  to  love  France,  and  hate  German  domination. 
As  he  grew  up,  Paul's  ambition  was  to  be  a  great  surgeon. 
He  wished  to  study,  not  in  Germany,  but  in  Paris  and 
London.  These  hopes,  however,  were  of  the  "stuff  that 
dreams  are  made  of,"  for  when  the  father  died,  the  boy  had 
to  work  at  anything  he  could  get  for  a  bare  livelihood.  It 
wasn't  till  he  was  over  twenty-five  that  he'd  scraped 
together  money  for  the  first  step  toward  his  career.  He 
went  to  Paris:  studied  and  starved;  then  to  London.  It 
was  there  I  met  him,  but  that  bit  of  the  story  fits  in  later. 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  12S 

He  was  thought  well  of  at  "Bart's,"  and  everybody  who 
knew  him  was  surprised  when  suddenly  he  married  one  of 
the  younger  nurses,  an  English  girl,  and  vanished  with  her 
from  London.  Presently  the  pair  appeared  in  Metz,  at 
the  mother's  house.  Herter  seemed  sad  and  discouraged, 
uncertain  of  his  future,  and  just  at  this  time,  through 
German  Lorraine  ran  rumours  of  war  "to  begin  when  the 
harvests  should  be  over."  Paul  and  his  mother  took  coun 
sel.  Both  were  French  at  heart.  They  determined  to 
leave  all  they  had  in  the  world  at  Metz,  rather  than  Paul 
should  be  called  up  to  serve  Prussia.  The  three  contrived 
to  cross  the  frontier.  Paul  offered  himself  to  the  Foreign 
Legion;  his  wife  volunteered  to  nurse  in  a  military  hospi 
tal  at  Nancy;  and  Madame  Herter,  mere  took  refuge  in 
her  girlhood's  home  at  Luneville,  where  her  old  father 
still  lived. 

Then  came  the  rush  of  the  Huns  across  the  frontier. 
Paul's  wife  was  killed  by  a  Zeppelin  bomb  which  wrecked 
her  hospital.  At  Luneville  the  mother  and  grandfather 
perished  in  their  own  house,  burned  to  the  ground  by  order 
of  the  Bavarian  colonel,  Von  Fosbender. 

Paul  Herter  had  not  been  in  love  with  his  wife.  There 
was  a  mystery  about  the  marriage,  but  her  fate  filled  him 
with  rage  and  horror.  His  mother  he  had  adored,  and 
the  news  of  her  martyrdom  came  near  to  driving  him  in 
sane.  In  the  madness  of  grief  he  vowed  vengeance  against 
all  Bavarians  who  might  fall  into  his  hands. 

He  was  fighting  then  in  the  Legion;  but  shortly  after 
he  was  gravely  wounded.  His  left  foot  had  to  be  ampu 
tated;  and  from  serving  France  as  a  soldier,  he  began  to 
serve  as  a  surgeon.  He  developed  astonishing  skill  in 


124  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

throat  and  chest  operations,  succeeding  in  some  which 
older  and  more  experienced  men  refused  to  attempt. 
Months  passed,  and  into  his  busy  life  had  never  come  the 
wished-for  chance  of  vengeance;  but  all  who  knew  him 
knew  that  Herter's  hatred  of  Bavarians  was  an  obsession. 
He  was  not  one  who  would  forget;  and  when  a  lot  of 
seriously  wounded  Bavarians  came  into  the  field-hospital 
where  he  was  at  work,  the  two  young  doctors  under  him 
looked  one  another  in  the  eyes.  Even  the  stretcher- 
bearers  had  heard  of  Herter's  vow,  but  there  was  nothing 
to  do  save  to  bring  in  the  stream  of  wounded,  and  trust  the 
calm  instinct  of  the  surgeon  to  control  the  hot  blood  of 
the  man.  Still,  the  air  was  electric  with  suspense,  and 
heavy  with  dread  of  some  vague  tragedy :  disgrace  for  the 
hospital,  ruin  for  Herter. 

But  the  Jewish  surgeon  (he  wasn't  called  "the  Wander 
ing  Jew"  in  those  days)  caught  the  telepathic  message  of 
fear,  and  laughed  grimly  at  what  men  were  thinking  of  him. 
"You  need  not  be  afraid,"  he  said  to  his  assistants. 
"  These  canaille  are  sacred  for  me.  They  do  not  count  as 
Bavarians." 

Nevertheless,  the  young  doctors  would  have  tended  the 
wounded  prisoners  themselves,  leaving  Herter  to  care  for 
his  countrymen  alone.  But  one  of  the  Bavarians  was  be 
yond  their  skill :  a  young  lieutenant.  His  wound  was  pre 
cisely  "Herter's  specialty" — a  bullet  lodged  in  the  heart, 
if  he  was  to  be  saved,  Herter  alone  could  save  him.  Would 
Herter  operate?  He  had  only  to  say  the  case  was  hope 
less,  and  refuse  to  waste  upon  it  time  needed  for  others. 

Perhaps  he  knew  what  suspicion  would  dog  him  through 
life  if  he  gave  this  verdict.  At  all  events,  he  chose  te 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

operate.  "Bring  me  the  brute,"  he  growled:  and  re 
luctantly  the  brute  was  brought — a  very  youthful  brute, 
with  a  face  of  such  angelic  charm  that  even  Herter  was 
struck  by  it.  He  had  steeled  himself  to  get  through  a  hate 
ful  job;  but  for  him — like  most  men  of  his  race — beauty 
held  a  strong  appeal.  Suddenly  he  wished  to  save  the  boy 
with  the  fair  curly  hair  and  arched  dark  brows.  Here 
was  a  German — a  Bavarian — who  could  have  no  vileness 
in  him  yet ! 

The  surgeon  got  ready  his  instruments  for  the  operation, 
which  must  be  done  quickly,  if  at  all.  The  boy  was  un 
conscious,  but  every  moment  or  two  he  broke  out  in  con 
vulsive  delirium,  giving  answers  to  questions  like  a  man 
talking  in  sleep.  "Hilda!  Hilda!"  he  cried  again  and 
again.  "My  Hilda, do  not  ask  me  that.  Thou  wouldst  not 
love  me  if  I  told  thee!  Thou  wouldst  hate  me  forever!" 

"What  have  you  done  that  Hilda  should  hate  you?" 
Paul  enquired,  as  he  waited  for  the  anaesthetic.  Ether 
was  running  short.  The  wounded  had  to  take  their  turn 
that  day. 

"Luneville!    Luneville!"  shrieked  the  Bavarian. 

Everyone  heard  the  cry.  The  two  young  doctors,  know 
ing  Herter *s  history,  turned  sick.  This  was  worse  than 
their  worst  fears !  But  they  could  do  nothing.  To  speak, 
to  try  to  act,  would  be  to  insult  the  surgeon.  They  saw 
that  he  was  ghastly  pale.  "What  happened  at  Lune 
ville?"  he  went  on. 

"Here  is  the  ether,"  a  voice  spoke  in  haste.  But  Paul 
heard  only  the  Bavarian. 

"Oh,  God,  the  old  woman!  Her  face  at  the  window.  I 
can't  forget.  Hilda — she  wouldn't  come  out.  It  wasn't 


126  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

my  fault.  The  Colonel's  orders.  An  old  man,  too.  We 
saw  them  in  the  fire.  We  had  to  pass  on.  Hilda,  forgive ! " 

"Was  it  a  corner  house  of  the  Rue  Princesse  Marie?" 
asked  Herter. 

"Yes — yes,  a  corner  house,"  groaned  the  boy  of  the 
beautiful  face. 

Herter  gave  a  sign  to  the  man  who  had  brought  the  ether. 
A  moment  more,  and  the  ravings  of  the  Bavarian  were 
silenced.  The  operation  began. 

The  others  had  their  hands  full  of  their  own  work,  yet 
with  a  kind  of  agonized  clairvoyance  they  were  conscious 
of  all  that  Herter  did.  The  same  thought  was  in  the  minds 
of  both  young  doctors.  They  exchanged  impressions  after 
ward.  "He'll  cut  the  boy's  heart  out  and  tread  it  under 
foot!" 

But  never  had  the  Jewish  surgeon  from  Metz  performed 
a  major  operation  with  more  coolness  or  more  perfect  skill. 
"Had  he  chosen  to  let  his  wrist  tremble  at  the  critical  second, 
revenge  would  easily  have  been  his.  But  awaiting  the 
instant  between  one  beat  of  the  heart  and  another,  he 
seized  the  shred  of  shrapnel  lodged  there,  and  closed  up  the 
throbbing  breast.  The  boy  would  live.  He  had  not  only 
spared,  but  saved,  the  life  of  one  who  was  perhaps  his 
mother's  murderer. 

During  the  whole  day  he  worked  on  untiringly  and — it 
seemed — unmoved.  Then,  at  the  end  of  the  last  operation, 
he  dropped  as  if  he  had  been  shot  through  the  brain. 

This  was  the  beginning  of  a  long,  peculiar  illness  which 
no  doctor  who  attended  him  could  satisfactorily  diagnose. 
He  was  constantly  delirious,  repeating  the  words  of  the 
Bavarian:  "Hilda — Hilda! — the  corner  house — Rue  Prin- 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  12? 

cesse  Marie — Luneville!"  and  it  was  feared  that,  if  he 
recovered,  he  would  be  insane.  After  many  weeks,  how 
ever,  he  came  slowly  back  to  himself — a  changed  self,  but  a 
sane  self.  Always  odd  in  his  appearance — very  tall  and 
dark  and  thin — he  had  wasted  to  a  walking  skeleton,  and 
his  black  hair  had  turned  snow-white.  He  had  lost  his 
self-confidence,  and  dreaded  to  take  up  work  again  lest  he 
should  fail  in  some  delicate  operation.  Long  leave  was 
granted,  and  he  was  advised  by  doctors  who  were  his 
friends  to  go  south,  to  sunshine  and  peace.  But  Herter 
insisted  that  the  one  hope  for  ultimate  cure  was  to  stay  in 
Lorraine.  He  took  up  his  quarters  in  what  was  left  of  a 
house  near  the  ruin  of  his  mother's  old  home,  in  Luneville, 
but  he  was  never  there  for  long  at  a  time.  He  was  pro 
vided  with  a  pass  to  go  and  come  as  he  liked,  being  greatly 
respected  and  pitied  at  headquarters;  and  wherever  there 
was  an  air  raid,  there  speedily  and  mysteriously  appeared 
Paul  Herter  among  the  victims. 

His  artificial  foot  did  not  prevent  his  riding  a  motor- 
bicycle,  and  on  this  he  arrived,  no  matter  at  what  hour  of 
night  or  day,  at  any  town  within  fifty  miles  of  Luneville, 
when  enemy  airmen  had  been  at  work.  He  gave  his 
services  unpaid  to  poor  and  rich  alike;  and  owing  to  the 
dearth  of  doctors  not  mobilized,  the  towns  concerned 
welcomed  him  thankfully.  All  the  surgeon's  serene  con 
fidence  in  himself  returned  in  these  emergencies,  and  he 
was  doing  invaluable  work.  People  were  grateful,  but  the 
man's  ways  and  looks  were  so  strange,  his  restlessness  so 
tragic,  that  they  dubbed  him  "le  Juif  Errant." 

Now,  Padre,  I  have  come  to  the  right  place  to  bring  in 
my  part  of  this  story. 


128  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

While  I  was  training  at  "Bart's,"  I  met  a  doctor  named 
Paul  Herter.  Some  of  the  girls  used  to  call  him  the  "  Ger 
man  Jew"  but  we  all  knew  that  his  Germanness  was 
only  an  accident  of  fate,  through  a  war  before  he  was  born, 
and  that  he  was  passionately  French  at  heart.  He  was 
clever — a  genius — but  moody  and  queer,  and  striking  to 
look  at.  He  would  have  been  ugly  but  for  a  pair  of  beauti 
ful  brown  eyes,  wistful  sometimes  as  a  dog's.  One  of  our 
nurses  was  in  love  with  him,  but  he  used  to  keep  out  of  her 
way  when  he  could.  He  was  said  not  to  care  for  women, 
and  I  was  a  little  flattered  that  a  man  so  well  thought  of 
"  at  the  top  "  should  take  notice  of  me.  When  I  look  back 
on  myself,  I  seem  to  have  been  very  young  then ! 

Dr.  Herter  used  to  meet  me,  as  if  by  accident,  when  I 
was  off  duty,  and  we  went  for  long  walks,  talking  French 
together;  I  enjoyed  that!  Besides,  there  was  nothing 
the  man  didn't  know.  He  was  a  kind  of  encyclopaedia 
of  all  the  great  musicians  and  artists  of  the  world  since 
the  Middle  Ages;  and  was  so  much  older  than  I,  that  I 
didn't  think  about  his  falling  in  love.  I  knew  I  was 
pretty,  and  that  beauty  of  all  sorts  was  a  cult  with  him. 
I  supposed  that  he  liked  looking  at  me — and  that  his 
fancy  would  end  there.  But  it  didn't.  There  came  a 
dreadful  day  when  he  accused  me  of  encouraging  him 
purposely,  of  leading  him  on  to  believe  that  I  cared. 
This  was  a  real  shock.  I  was  sorry — sorry!  But  he 
said  such  horrid  things  that  I  was  hurt  and  angry,  too.  I 
said  horrid  things  in  my  turn.  This  scene  happened  in 
the  street.  I  asked  him  to  leave  me,  and  he  did  at  once, 
without  looking  back.  I  can  see  him  now,  striding  off  in 
the  twilight!  No  wonder  the  tall  black  silhouette  in  the 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  129 

Place  Stanislas  looked  familiar.  But  the  man  is  thinner 
now,  and  walks  with  a  slight  limp. 

The  next  thing  I  heard  of  him  after  our  break  was  that 
he'd  married  Nurse  Norman  (the  one  who  was  in  love 
with  him)  and  that  they'd  left  England.  Whether  he'd 
married  the  girl  in  a  rage  against  me,  or  because  he  was 
sorry  for  her  (she'd  just  then  fallen  into  deep  disgrace, 
through  giving  a  patient  the  wrong  medicine),  I  didn't 
know.  I  can't  say  I  didn't  care,  for  I  often  thought  of 
the  man  and  wondered  what  had  become  of  him,  though 
I  don't  remember  ever  writing  about  him  to  you.  He 
was  but  indirectly  concerned  with  my  life,  and  maybe  it 
was  in  the  back  of  my  mind  that  I  might  get  a  scolding 
from  you  if  I  told  you  the  tale. 

The  moment  the  name  of  "Paul  Herter"  was  men 
tioned  in  that  pleasant  garden  at  Nancy,  the  whole  episode 
of  those  old  days  at  "Bart's"  came  back,  and  I  guessed 
why  the  tall  figure  had  darted  away  from  Dierdre  O'Farrell 
as  we  came  in  sight.  He  must  have  offered  to  see  the  girl 
safely  home,  after  dressing  her  wound  (probably  at 
some  chemist's),  and  she  had  told  him  about  her  fellow- 
travellers.  Naturally  my  name  sent  him  flying  like  a 
shot  from  a  seventy-five!  But  I  can't  help  hoping  we 
may  meet  by  accident.  There's  a  halo  round  the  man's 
head  for  me  since  I've  heard  that  tragic  story.  Before, 
he  was  only  a  queer  genius.  Now,  he's  a  hero.  Will  he 
turn  away,  I  wonder,  if  I  walk  up  to  him  and  hold  out  my 
hand? 

I  am  longing,  for  a  double  reason,  to  see  Vitrimont  and 
Gerbeviller  and  Luneville,  since  I've  learned  that  at  one 
of  those  places  Paul  Herter  may  appear. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

WE  WERE  three  automobiles  strong  when  we 
went  out  of  Nancy,  along  what  they  call  the 
"Luneville  road."     That  was  yesterday,  as  I 
write,  and  already  it  seems  long  ago!     The  third  and  big 
gest  car  belonged  to  the  Prefet;  gray  and  military  looking, 
driven  by  a  soldier  in  uniform;  and  this  time  Dierdre 
OTarrell  was  with  us.     I  was  wondering  if  she  went 
"under  orders,"  or  if  she  wished  to  see  the  sights  we  were 
to  see — among  them,  perhaps,  her  elusive  doctor ! 

We  turned  south,  leaving  town,  and  presently  passed — 
at  Dombasle — astonishingly  huge  salt-works,  with  rubble- 
heaps  tall  as  minor  pyramids.  On  each  apex  stood  a  thing 
like  the  form  of  a  giant  black  woman  in  a  waggling  gas 
mask- and  a  helmet.  I  could  have  found  out  what  these 
weird  engines  were,  no  doubt,  but  I  preferred  to  remember 
them  as  mysterious  monsters. 

At  a  great,  strange  church  of  St.  Nicolas,  in  the  old 
town  of  St.  Nicolas-du-Port,  we  stopped,  because  the 
Prefet's  daughters  had  told  us  of  a  magic  stone  in  the 
pavement  which  gives  good  fortune  to  those  who  set  foot 
on  it.  Only  when  several  of  us  were  huddled  together, 
with  a  foot  each  on  the  sacred  spot,  were  we  told  that  it 
meant  marriage  before  the  new  year.  If  the  spell  works, 
Dierdre  O'Farrell,  Brian,  and  I  will  all  be  married  in  less 
than  four  months.  But  St.  Nicolas  is  a  false  prophet 

130 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  131 

where  we  are  concerned.  Brian  and  I  will  never  marry. 
Even  if  poor  Brian  should  fall  head  over  ears  in  love,  he 
wouldn't  ask  a  girl  to  share  his  broken  life :  he  has  told  me 
this.  As  for  me,  I  can  never  love  any  man  after  Jim 
Beckett.  The  least  penance  I  owe  is  to  be  faithful  for 
ever  to  his  memory  and  my  own  falsehood ! 

St.  Nicolas  is  the  patron  saint  of  the  neighbourhood,  so 
it's  right  that  from  his  little  town  and  his  big  church  all  the 
country  round  should  open  out  to  the  eye,  as  if  to  do  him 
homage. 

From  the  hill  of  Leomont  we  could  see  to  the  south  the 
far-off,  famous  Forest  of  Parroy;  away  to  the  north,  the 
blue  heights  of  La  Grande  Couronne,  where  the  fate  of 
Nancy  was  decided  in  1914;  to  the  west,  a  purple  haze  like 
a  mourning  wreath  of  violets  hung  over  the  valley  of  the 
Meurthe,  and  the  tragic  little  tributary  river  Mortagne; 
beyond,  we  could  picture  with  our  mind's  eyes  the  Moselle 
and  the  Meuse. 

But  Leomont  was  not  a  place  where  one  could  stand 
coldly  thinking  of  horizons.  It  drew  all  thoughts  to  itself, 
and  to  the  drama  played  out  upon  its  miniature  mountain. 
There  was  fought  one  of  the  fiercest  and  most  heroic  single 
battles  of  the  war. 

We  had  to  desert  the  cars,  and  walk  up  a  rough  track  to 
the  ruined  farmhouse  which  crowned  the  hill;  a  noble, 
fortified  farmhouse  that  must  have  had  the  dignity  of  a 
chateau  before  the  great  fight  which  shattered  its  ancient 
walls.  Now  it  has  the  dignity  of  a  mausoleum.  Long 
ago,  in  Roman  days  when  Diana,  Goddess  of  the  Moon,  was 
patron  of  Luneville  and  the  country  round,  a  temple  of 
stone  and  marble  in  her  honour  and  a  soaring  fountain 


132  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

crowned  the  high  summit  of  Leomont,  for  all  the  world 
to  see.  Her  influence  is  said  to  reign  over  the  whole 
of  Lorraine,  from  that  day  to  this,  St.  Nicholas  being  her 
sole  rival:  and  a  prophecy  has  come  down  through  the 
centuries  that  no  evil  may  befall  Diana's  citadels,  save  in 
the  "dark  o'  the  moon,"  when  the  protectress  is  absent. 
Luneville  was  overrun  in  the  "dark  o'  the  moon";  and 
it  was  then  also  that  the  battle  of  Leomont  was  fought, 
ending  in  the  vast  cellars,  where  no  man  was  left  alive. 

In  these  days  of  ours,  it's  a  wonderful  and  romantic 
mountain,  sacred  as  a  monument  forever,  to  the  glory  of 
the  French  soldiers  who  did  not  die  in  vain.  The  scarred 
face  of  the  ruined  house — its  stones  pitted  by  shrapnel  as  if 
by  smallpox — gazes  over  Lorraine  as  the  Sphinx  gazes 
over  the  desert :  calm,  majestic,  sad,  yet  triumphant.  And 
under  the  shattered  walls,  among  fallen  buttresses  and 
blackened  stumps  of  oaks,  are  the  graves  of  Leomont 's 
heroes;  graves  everywhere,  over-  the  hillside;  graves  in 
the  open;  graves  in  sheltered  corners  where  wild  flowers 
have  begun  to  grow;  their  tricolour  cockades  and  wooden 
crosses  mirrored  in  the  blue  of  water-filled  shell-holes; 
graves  in  the  historic  cellars,  covered  with  a  pall  of  dark 
ness  ;  graves  along  the  slope  of  the  hill,  where  old  trenches 
have  left  ruts  in  the  rank  grass. 

An  unseen  choir  of  bird- voices  was  singing  the  sweetest 
requiem  ever  sung  for  the  dead;  yet  Leomont  in  its  ma 
jestic  loneliness  saddened  us,  even  the  irrepressible  Puck. 
We  were  sad  and  rather  silent  all  the  way  to  Vitrimont; 
and  Vitrimont,  at  first  glance,  was  a  sight  to  make  us  sad 
der  than  any  we  had  seen.  There  had  been  a  Vitrimont, 
a  happy  little  place,  built  of  gray  and  rose-red  stones; 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  133 

now,  of  those  stones  hardly  one  lies  upon  another,  except 
in  rubble  heaps.  And  yet,  Vitrimont  isn't  sad  as  others 
of  the  ruined  towns  are  sad.  It  even  cheered  us,  after 
Leomont,  because  a  star  of  hope  shines  over  the  field  of 
desolation — a  star  that  has  come  out  of  the  west.  Some 
wonderful  women  of  San  Francisco  decided  to  "adopt" 
Vitrimont,  as  one  of  the  little  places  of  France  which  had 
suffered  most  in  the  war.  Two  of  them,  Miss  Polk  and  Miss 
Crocker — girls  rather  than  women — gave  themselves  as 
well  as  their  money  to  the  work.  In  what  remains  of  Vitri 
mont — what  they  are  making  of  Vitrimont — they  live  like 
two  fresh  roses  that  have  taken  root  in  a  pile  of  ashes. 
With  a  few  books,  a  few  bowls  of  flowers,  pictures,  and  bits 
of  bright  chintz  they  have  given  charm  to  their  poor  rooms 
in  the  half -ruined  house  of  a  peasant.  This  has  been  their 
home  for  many  months,  from  the  time  when  they  were  the 
only  creatures  who  shared  Vitrimont  with  its  ghosts:  but 
now  other  homes  are  growing  under  their  eyes  and  through 
their  charity;  thanks  to  them,  the  people  of  the  destroyed 
village  are  trooping  back,  happy  and  hopeful.  The  church 
has  been  repaired  (that  was  done  first,  "because  it  is  God's 
house  ")  with  warm-coloured  pink  walls  and  neat  decora 
tion;  and  plans  for  the  restoring  of  the  whole  village  are 
being  carried  out,  while  the  waiting  inhabitants  camp  in  a 
village  of  toy-like  bungalows  given  by  the  French  Govern 
ment.  I  never  saw  such  looks  of  worshipping  love  cast 
upon  human  beings  as  those  of  the  people  of  Vitrimont  for 
these  two  American  girls.  I'm  sure  they  believe  that  Miss 
Crocker  and  Miss  Polk  are  saints  incarnated  for  their  sakes 
by  "la  Sainte  Vierge"  One  old  man  said  as  much! 

He  was  so  old  that  it  seemed  as  if  he  could  never  have 


134  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

been  young,  yet  he  was  whistling  a  toothless  but  patriotic 
whistle,  over  some  bit  of  amateur-carpenter  work,  in  front 
of  a  one-room  bungalow.  Inside,  visible  through  the  open 
door,  was  the  paralyzed  wife  he  had  lately  wheeled  "home" 
to  Vitrimont,  in  some  kind  of  a  cart.  "Oh,  yes,  we  are 
happy ! "  he  stopped  whistling  to  say.  "We  are  fortunate, 
too.  We  think  we  have  found  the  place  where  our  street 
used  to  be,  and  these  Angels — we  do  not  call  them  Demoi 
selles,  but  Angels — from  America  are  going  to  build  us  a 
new  home  in  it.  We  have  seen  the  plan.  It  is  more  beau 
tiful  than  the  old !" 

Wherever  we  passed  a  house  on  the  road  to  Luneville, 
and  in  town  itself,  as  we  came  in,  we  saw  notices — printed 
and  written — to  remind  us  that  we  were  in  the  war-zone,  if 
we  forgot  for  an  instant.  "Logement  militaire,"  or 
"Cave  voutee,  200  places — 400  places."  Those  hospitable 
cellars  advertising  their  existence  in  air  raids  and  bombard 
ments  must  be  a  comforting  sight  for  passers-by,  now  and 
then;  but  no  siren  wailed  us  a  warning.  We  drove  on  in 
peace;  and  I — disappointed  at  Vitrimont — quietly  kept 
watch  for  a  tall,  thin  figure  of  a  man  with  a  slight  limp. 
At  any  moment,  I  thought,  I  might  see  him,  for  at  Lune 
ville  he  lives — if  he  lives  anywhere ! 

I  was  so  eager  and  excited  that  I  could  hardly  turn  my 
mind  to  other  things;  but  Brian,  not  knowing  why  I  should 
be  absent-minded,  constantly  asked  questions  about 
what  we  passed.  Julian  OTarrell  had  exchanged  his  sister 
for  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Beckett,  whom  he  had  persuaded  to  take 
the  short  trip  in  his  ramshackle  taxi.  His  excuse  was  that 
Mother  Beckett  would  deal  out  more  wisely  than  Dierdre 
his  Red  Cross  supplies  to  the  returned  refugees;  so  we  had 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  135 

the  girl  with  us;  and  I  caught  reproachful  glances  if  I  was 
slow  in  answering  my  blind  brother.  She  herself  suspects 
him  as  a  poseur,  yet  she  judges  me  careless  of  his  needs 
— which  I  should  find  funny,  if  it  didn't  make  me  furious ! 
Just  to  see  what  Dierdre  would  do,  and  perhaps  to  provoke 
her,  sometimes  I  didn't  answer  at  all,  but  left  her  to  explain 
our  surroundings  to  Brian.  I  hardly  thought  she  would 
respond  to  the  silent  challenge,  but  almost  ostentatiously 
she  did. 

She  cried,  "There's  a  castle!"  when  we  came  to  the  fine 
and  rather  staid  chateau  which  Duke  Stanislas  loved,  and 
where  he  died.  She  even  tried  to  describe  it  for  Brian,  with 
faltering  self -consciousness,  and  the  old  streets  which  once 
had  been  "brilliant  as  Versailles,  full  of  Queen  Marie's 
beautiful  ladies."  Now,  they  are  gray  and  sad,  even  those 
streets  which  show  no  scars  from  the  three  weeks'  martyr 
dom  of  German  rule.  Soldiers  pass,  on  foot  and  in  motors, 
yet  it's  hard  to  realize  that  before  the  war  Luneville  was 
one  of  the  gayest,  grandest  garrison  towns  of  France,  rich 
and  industrious,  under  Diana's  special  protection.  Just 
because  she  was  away  in  her  moon-chariot,  one  dark  and 
dreadful  night,  all  has  changed  since  then.  But  she'll 
come  back,  and  bless  her  ancient  place  of  Lunse  Villa,  in 
good  time ! 

It  was  here,  Brian  reminded  me,  that  they  drew  up 
the  treaty  which  gave  the  Rhine  frontier  to  France,  after 
Napoleon  won  the  Battle  of  Marengo.  I  wonder  if  the 
Germans  remembered  this  in  1914  when  they  came? 

We  lunched  at  an  hotel,  in  a  restaurant  crowded  with 
French  officers;  and  not  a  civilian  there  except  ourselves. 
I  was  hoping  that  Paul  Herter  might  come  in,  for  the 


136  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

tragic  Rue  Princesse  Marie  is  not  far  away — and  even 
a  Wandering  Jew  must  eat!  He  did  not  come;  but  I 
almost  forgot  my  new  disappointment  in  hearing  the 
French  officers  talk  about  Lorraine. 

They  were  in  the  midst  of  a  discussion  when  we  came 
in,  and  when  they  had  all  bowed  politely  to  us,  they  took 
up  its  thread  where  it  had  broken  off.  A  colonel — a 
Lorrainer — was  saying  that  out  of  the  wealth  of  Lorraine 
(stolen  wealth,  he  called  it!)  Germany  had  built  up  her 
fortune  as  a  united  nation,  in  a  few  years  far  exceeding 
the  indemnity  received  in  1871.  Germany  had  known 
that  there  were  vast  stores  of  iron;  but  the  amazing  riches 
in  phosphorus  ores  had  come  to  her  as  a  surprise.  If  she 
had  guessed,  never  would  she  have  agreed  to  leave  more 
than  half  the  deposit  on  the  French  side  of  the  frontier! 
Well  enough  for  Prussian  boasters  to  say  that  Germany's 
success  was  due  to  her  own  industry  and  supervirtue,  or 
that  her  tariff  schemes  had  worked  wonders.  But  take 
away  the  provinces  she  tore  from  France,  and  she  will  be  a 
Samson  shorn!  Take  away  Lorraine  and  the  world  will 
be  rid  once  and  for  all  of  the  German  menace ! 

When  we  left  Luneville  there  was  still  hope  from  Ger- 
beviller.  Herter  is  often  there,  it  seems.  Besides,  Gerbe- 
viller  was  the  principal  end  and  aim  of  our  day's  excursion. 
Once  no  more  than  a  pleasant  town  of  quiet  beauty  on  a 
pretty  river,  now  it  is  a  monument  historique,  the  Pompeii 
of  Lorraine. 

As  we  arrived  the  sun  clouded  over  suddenly,  and  the 
effect  was  almost  theatrical.  From  gold  the  light  had 
dimmed  to  silver.  In  the  midst  of  the  afternoon,  we  saw 
Gerbeviller  as  if  by  moonlight  in  the  still  silence  of  night. 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  1ST 

On  the  outskirts  we  forsook  our  three  cars,  and  walked 
slowly  through  the  dead  town,  awestruck  and  deeply 
thoughtful  as  if  in  a  church  where  the  body  of  some  great 
man  lay  in  state. 

There  was  not  a  sound  except,  as  at  Leomont,  the 
unseen  choir  of  bird- voices;  but  their  song  emphasized 
the  silence.  In  the  pale  light  the  shells  of  wrecked  houses 
glimmered  white,  like  things  seen  deep  down  under  clear 
water.  They  were  mysterious  as  daytime  ghosts;  and 
already  a  heartbreaking  picturesqueness  had  taken  posses 
sion  of  the  streets,  as  an  artist-decorator  comes  into  an 
ugly  room  and  mellows  all  its  crudeness  with  his  loving 
touch. 

Gerbeviller's  tragic  little  river  Mortagne  gleamed  silver- 
bright  beneath  a  torn  lace  of  delicate  white  flowers  that 
was  like  a  veil  flung  off  by  a  fugitive  bride.  It  ran  spark 
ling  under  the  motionless  wheel  of  a  burned  mill,  and 
twinkled  on — the  one  living  thing  the  Germans  left — 
to  flow  through  the  park  of  a  ruined  chateau. 

When  it  was  alive,  that  small  chateau  must  have  been 
gay  and  delightful  as  a  castle  in  a  fairy  tale,  pink  and 
friendly  among  its  pleasant  trees;  but  even  in  its  prime, 
rich  with  tapestries  and  splendid  old  paintings,  which 
were  its  treasures,  never  could  the  place  have  been  so 
beautiful  as  in  death! 

At  a  first  glance— seen  straight  in  front — the  face  of 
the  house  seems  to  live  still,  rosy  with  colour,  gazing  with 
immense  blue  eyes  through  a  light  green  veil.  But  a 
second  glance  brings  a  shock  to  the  heart.  The  face  is  a 
mask  held  up  to  hide  a  skull;  the  blue  of  the  eyes  is  the 
open  sky  framed  by  glassless  windows;  the  rosy  colour 


138  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

is  stained  with  dark  streaks  of  smoke  and  flame;  the 
chateau  among  its  trees,  and  the  chapel  with  its  stopped 
clock  and  broken  saints  are  skeletons. 

Not  even  OTarrell  could  talk.  We  were  a  silent  pro 
cession  in  the  midst  of  silence  until  we  came  at  last  to 
the  one  quarter  of  the  town  whose  few  houses  had  been 
spared  to  the  courage  of  Gerbeviller's  heroine,  Soeur  Julie. 

Her  street  (but  for  her  it  would  not  exist)  has  perhaps 
a  dozen  houses  intact,  looking  strangely  bourgeois,  almost 
out  of  place,  so  smugly  whole  where  all  else  has  perished. 
Yet  it  was  a  comfort  to  see  them,  and  wonderful  to  see 
Soeur  Julie. 

We  knocked  at  the  door  of  the  hospice,  the  cottage 
hospital  which  is  famous  because  of  her,  its  head  and 
heart;  and  she  herself  let  us  in,  for  at  that  instant  she  had 
been  in  the  act  of  starting  out.  I  recognized  her  at 
once  from  the  photographs  which  were  in  every  illus 
trated  paper  at  the  time  when,  for  her  magnificent  bravery 
and  presence  of  mind,  she  was  named  Chevaliere  of  the 
Legion  of  Honour. 

But  with  her  first  smile  I  saw  that  the  pictures  had 
done  her  crude  injustice.  They  made  of  Sceur  Julie  an 
elderly  woman  in  the  dress  of  a  nun;  somewhat  stout, 
rather  large  of  feature.  But  the  figure  which  met  us  in 
the  narrow  corridor  had  dignity  and  a  noble  strength. 
The  smile  of  greeting  lit  deep  eyes  whose  colour  was 
that  of  brown  topaz,  and  showed  the  kindly,  humorous 
curves  of  a  generous  mouth.  The  flaring  white  headdress 
of  the  Order  of  Saint-Charles  of  Nancy  framed  a  face 
so  strong  that  I  ceased  to  wonder  how  this  woman  had 
cowed  a  German  horde;  and  it  thrilled  me  to  think  that 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  139 

in  this  very  doorway  she  had  stood  at  bay,  offering  her 
black-robed  body  as  a  shield  for  the  wounded  soldiers 
and  poor  people  she  meant  to  save. 

Even  if  we  had  not  come  from  the  Prefet,  and  with 
some  of  his  family  who  were  her  admiring  friends,  I'm 
sure  Soeur  Julie  would  have  welcomed  the  strangers.  As 
it  was  she  beamed  with  pleasure  at  the  visit,  and  called 
a  young  nun  to  help  place  chairs  for  us  all  in  the  clean, 
bare  reception  room.  By  this  time  she  must  know  that 
she  is  the  heroine  of  Lorraine — her  own  Lorraine! — and 
that  those  who  came  to  Gerbeviller  come  to  see  her;  but 
she  talked  to  us  with  the  unself -consciousness  of  a  child* 
It  was  only  when  she  was  begged  to  tell  the  tale  of  August 
23,  1914,  that  she  showed  a  faint  sign  of  embarrassment. 
The  blood  flushed  her  brown  face,  and  she  hesitated  how  to 
begin,  as  if  she  would  rather  not  begin  at  all,  but  once 
launched  on  the  tide,  she  forgot  everything  except  her 
story :  she  lived  that  time  over  again,  and  we  lived  it  with 
her. 

"What  a  day  it  was!"  she  sighed.  "We  knew  whal, 
must  happen,  unless  God  willed  to  spare  Gerbeviller  by 
some  miracle.  Our  town  was  in  the  German's  way.  Yet 
we  prayed — we  hoped.  We  hoped  even  after  our  army's 
defeat  at  Morhange.  Then  Luneville  was  taken.  Our 
turn  wras  near.  We  heard  how  terrible  were  the  Bavarians 
under  their  general,  Clauss.  Our  soldiers — poor,  brav< 
boys! — fought  every  step  of  the  way  to  hold  them  back. 
They  fought  like  lions.  But  they  were  so  few!  The 
Germans  came  in  a  gray  wave  of  men.  Our  wounded 
were  brought  here  to  the  hospice,  as  many  as  we  could 
take — and  more!  Often  there  were  three  hundred.  But 


140  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

when  there  was  no  hope  to  save  the  town,  quick,  with 
haste  at  night,  they  got  the  wounded  away — ambulance 
after  ambulance,  cart  after  cart:  all  but  a  few;  nineteen 
grands  blesses,  who  could  not  be  moved.  They  were  here 
in  this  room  where  we  sit.  But  ah,  if  you  had  seen  us 
— we  sisters —  helping  the  commandant  as  best  we  could ! 
We  made  ourselves  carpenters.  We  took  wooden  shutters 
and  doors  from  their  hinges  for  stretchers.  We  split  the 
wood  with  axes.  We  did  not  remember  to  be  tired.  We 
tore  up  our  linen,  and  linen  which  others  brought  us. 
We  tied  the  wounded  boys  on  to  the  shutters.  They 
never  groaned.  Sometimes  they  smiled.  Ah,  it  was  we 
who  wept,  to  see  them  jolting  off  in  rough  country  wagons, 
going  we  knew  not  where,  or  to  what  fate!  All  night  we 
worked,  and  at  dawn  there  were  none  left — except  those 
nineteen  I  told  you  of.  And  that  was  the  morning  of  the 
23rd  of  August,  hot  and  heavy — a  weight  upon  our  hearts 
and  heads. 

"Not  only  the  wounded,  but  our  defenders  had  gone. 
The  army  was  in  retreat.  We  had  fifty-seven  chasseurs 
left,  ordered  to  keep  the  enemy  back  for  five  hours.  They 
did  it  for  eleven  !  From  dawn  till  twilight  they  held  the 
bridge  outside  the  town,  and  fought  behind  barriers  they 
had  flung  up  in  haste.  Boys  they  were,  but  of  a  courage! 
They  knew  they  were  to  die  to  save  their  comrades. 
They  asked  no  better  than  to  die  hard.  And  they  fought 
so  well,  the  Germans  believed  there  were  thousands.  Not 
till  our  boys  had  nearly  all  fallen  did  the  enemy  break 
through  and  swarm  into  the  town.  That  was  down  at 
the  other  end  from  us,  below  the  hill,  but  soon  we  heard 
fearful  sounds — screams  and  shoutings,  shots  and  loud 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  141 

explosions.  They  were  burning  the  place  street  by  street 
with  that  method  of  theirs!  They  fired  the  houses  with 
pastilles  their  chemists  have  invented,  and  with  petrol. 
The  air  was  thick  with  smoke.  We  shut  our  windows  to 
save  the  wounded  from  coughing.  Soon  we  might  all 
die  together,  but  we  would  keep  our  boys  from  new  suffer 
ings  while  we  could ! 

"Then  at  last  the  hour  struck  for  us.  One  of  our  sis 
ters,  who  kad  run  to  look  at  the  red  sky  to  see  how  near 
the  fire  came,  cried  out  that  Germans  were  pouring  up  the 
hill — four  officers  on  horseback  heading  a  troop  of  soldiers. 
I  knew  what  that  meant.  I  went  quickly  to  the  door 
to  meet  them.  My  knees  felt  as  if  they  had  broken  under 
my  weight.  My  heart  was  a  great,  cold,  dead  thing  within 
me.  My  mouth  was  dry  as  if  I  had  lost  myself  for  days 
in  the  desert.  I  am  not  a  small  woman,  yet  it  seemed 
that  I  was  no  bigger  than  a  mouse  under  the  stare  of  those 
big  men  who  leaped  off  their  horses,  and  made  as 
if  to  pass  me  at  the  door.  But  I  did  not  let  them 
pass.  I  knew  I  could  stop  them  long  enough  at  least 
to  kill  me  and  then  the  sisters,  one  by  one,  before 
they  Breached  our  wounded!  We  backed  slowly  before 
them  into  the  hall,  the  sisters  and  I,  to  stand  guard  before 
this  room. 

"You  are  hiding  Frenchmen  here — French  soldiers!' 
a  giant  of  a  captain  bawled  at  me.  Beside  him  was  a 
lieutenant  even  more  tall.  They  had  swords  in  their 
hands,  and  they  both  pointed  their  weapons  at  me. 

"'WTe  have  nineteen  soldiers  desperately  wounded,'  I 
said.  'There  are  no  other  men  here.' 

"'You  are  lying!'     shouted  the  captain.     He  thought 


142  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

lie  could  frighten  me  with  his  roar  like  a  lion:  but  he  did 
not  seem  to  me  so  noble  a  beast. 

"'You  may  come  in  and  see  for  yourselves  that  I 
speak  the  truth,'  I  said.  And  think  what  it  was  for  me, 
a  woman  of  Lorraine,  to  bid  a  German  enter  her  house  [ 
I  did  not  let  those  two  pass  by  me  into  this  room.  I 
came  in  first.  While  the  lieutenant  stood  threatening 
our  boys  in  their  beds  that  he  would  shoot  if  they  moved, 
the  captain  went  round,  tearing  off  the  sheets,  looking 
for  firearms.  In  his  hand  was  a  strange  knife,  like  a 
dagger  which  he  had  worn  in  his  belt.  One  of  our 
soldiers,  too  weak  to  open  his  lips,  looked  at  the  German, 
with  a  pair  of  great  dark  eyes  that  spoke  scorn;  and  that 
look  maddened  the  man  with  a  sudden  fury. 

"'Coward,  of  a  country  of  cowards!  You  and  cattle 
like  you  have  cut  off  the  ears  and  torn  out  the  eyes  of  our 
glorious  Bavarians.  I'll  slit  your  throat  to  pay  for  that !' 

"Ah,  but  this  was  too  much — more  than  I  could  bear! 
I  said  'No!'  and  I  put  my  two  hands — so — between  the 
throat  of  that  boy  and  the  German  knife." 

When  Soeur  Julie  came  to  this  part  of  the  tale,  she 
made  a  beautiful,  unconscious  gesture,  re-enacting  the 
part  she  had  played.  I  knew  then  how  she  had  looked 
when  she  faced  the  Bavarian  officer,  and  why  he  had  not 
hacked  those  two  work-worn  but  nobly  shaped  hands  of 
hers,  to  get  at  the  French  chasseur's  throat.  She  seemed 
the  incarnate  spirit  of  the  mother-woman,  whose  selfless 
courage  no  brute  who  had  known  a  mother  could  resist. 
And  her  "No!"  rang  out  deep  and  clear  as  a  warning 
tocsin.  I  felt  that  the  wounded  boy  must  have  been  as 
safe  behind  those  hands  and  that  "No!"  as  if  a  thick 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  143 

though  transparent  wall  of  glass  had  magically  risen  to 
protect  him. 

"All  this  time,"  Soeur  Julie  went  on,  gathering  herself 
together  after  a  moment.  "All  this  time  Germans  led 
by  non-commissioned  officers  were  searching  the  hospice. 
But  they  found  no  hiding  soldiers,  because  there  were 
none  such  to  find.  And  somehow  that  captain  and  his 
lieutenant  did  not  touch  our  wounded  ones.  They  had 
a  look  of  shame  and  sullenness  on  their  faces,  as  if  they 
were  angry  with  themselves  for  yielding  their  wicked 
will  to  an  old  woman.  Yet  they  did  yield,  thank  God! 
And  then  I  got  the  captain's  promise  to  spare  the  hospice — 
got  it  by  saying  we  would  care  for  his  wounded  as  faith 
fully  as  we  tended  our  own.  I  said,  'If  you  leave  this 
house  standing  to  take  in  your  men,  you  must  leave  the 
whole  street.  If  the  buildings  round  us  burn,  we  shall 
burn,  too — and  with  us  your  German  wounded.  Will 
you  give  me  your  word  that  this  whole  quarter  shall  be 
safe?' 

"The  man  did  not  answer.  But  he  looked  down  at 
his  boots.  And  I  have  always  noticed  that,  when  men  of 
any  nation  look  at  their  boots,  it  is  that  they  are  undecided. 
It  was  so  with  him.  A  few  more  arguments  from  me,  and 
he  said:  'It  shall  be  as  you  ask.' 

"  Soon  he  must  have  been  glad  of  his  promise,  for  there 
were  many  German  wounded,  and  we  took  them  all  in. 
Ah,  this  room,  which  you  see  so  clean  and  white  now,  ran 
blood.  We  had  to  sweep  blood  into  the  hall,  and  so  out 
at  the  front  door,  where  at  least  it  washed  away  the 
German  footprints  from  our  floor!  For  days  we  worked 
and  did  our  best,  even  when  we  knew  of  the  murders 


144  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

committed:  innocent  women  with  their  little  children. 
And  the  fifteen  old  men  they  shot  for  hostages.  Oh,  we 
did  OUT  best,  though  it  was  like  acid  eating  our  hearts. 
But  our  reward  came  the  day  the  Germans  had  to  gather 
up  their  wounded  in  wild  haste,  as  the  French  comman 
dant  had  gathered  ours  before  the  retreat.  They  fled,  and 
our  Frenchmen  marched  back — too  late  to  save  the  town, 
but  not  too  late  to  redeem  its  honour.  And  that  is  all 
my  story." 

As  she  finished  with  a  smile  half  sad,  half  sweet,  Soeur 
Julie  looked  over  our  heads  at  some  one  who  had  just  come 
in — some  one  who  had  stood  listening  in  silence,  unheard 
and  unseen  by  us.  I  turned  mechanically,  and  my  eyes 
met  the  eyes  of  Paul  Herter,  the  "  Wandering  Jew. " 


CHAPTER  XV 

DIERDRE  O'FARRELL  and  I  were  sitting  side 
by  side,  our  backs  to  the  door,  so  it  was  only 
as  we  turned  that  Herter  could  have  recognized 
us.  He  had  no  scruple  in  showing  that  I  was  the  last 
person  he  wished  to  meet.  One  look  was  enough  for 
him!  His  pale  face — changed  and  aged  since  London — 
flushed  a  dark  and  violent  red.  Backing  out  into  the 
hall  he  banged  the  door. 

My  ears  tingled  as  if  they  had  been  boxed.  I  suppose 
I've  been  rather  spoiled  by  men.  Anyhow,  not  one  ever 
before  ran  away  at  sight  of  me,  as  if  I  were  Medusa.  I'd 
been  hoping  that  Doctor  Paul  and  I  might  meet  and  make 
friends,  so  this  was  a  blow :  and  it  hurt  a  little  that  Dierdre 
O'Farrell  should  see  me  thus  snubbed.  I  glanced  at  her; 
and  her  faint  smile  told  that  she  understood. 

Sceur  Julie  was  bewildered  for  a  second,  but  recovered 
herself  to  explain  that  Doctor  Herter  was  eccentric  and 
shy  of  strangers.  He  came  often  from  Luneville  to 
Gerbeviller  to  tend  the  poor,  refusing  payment,  and  was  so 
good  at  heart  that  we  must  forgive  his  odd  ways. 

"Spurlos  versnubt!"  I  heard  Puck  chuckling  to  him 
self;  so  he,  too,  was  in  the  secret*of  the  situation.  I  half 
expected  him  to  pretend  ingenuousness,  and  spring  the 
tale  of  Dierdre's  adventure  with  Herter  on  the  company. 
But  he  preserved  a  discreet  reticence,  more  for  his  own 

145 


146  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

sake  than  mine  or  his  sister's,  of  course.  He's  as  lazy 
as  he  is  impish,  except  when  there's  some  special  object 
to  gain,  and  probably  he  wished  to  avoid  the  bother  of 
explanations.  As  for  Brian,  his  extreme  sensitiveness  is 
better  than  studied  tact.  I'm  sure  he  felt  magnetically 
that  Dierdre  O'Farrell  shrank  from  a  reference  to  her  part 
in  the  night  air  raid.  But  his  silence  puzzled  her,  and  I 
saw  her  studying  him — more  curiously  than  gratefully, 
I  thought. 

We  had  heard  the  end  of  Soeur  Julie's  story,  and  had  no 
further  excuse  to  keep  her  tied  to  the  duties  of  hostess. 
When  the  Becketts  had  left  something  for  the  poor  of  the 
hospice,  we  bade  the  heroine  of  Gerbeviller  farewell,  and 
started  out  to  regain  our  automobiles,  Julian  O'Farrell 
suddenly  appearing  at  my  side. 

"Don't  make  an  excuse  that  you  must  walk  with  your 
brother,"  he  said.  "He's  all  right  with  Dierdre;  perhaps 
just  as  happy  as  with  you !  One  does  want  a  change  from 
the  best  of  sisters  now  and  then." 

"Mrs.  Beckett "I  began. 

"Mrs.  Beckett  is  discussing  with  Mr.  Beckett  what 
they  can  do  for  Gerbeviller,  and  they'll  ask  your  advice 
when  they  want  it.  No  use  worrying.  They've  boodle 
enough  for  all  their  charities,  and  for  the  shorn  lambs, 
too." 

"Do  you  call  yourself  a  shorn  lamb?"  I  sniffed. 

"Certainly.  Don't  I  look  it?  Good  heavens,  girl,  you 
needn't  basilisk  me  so,  to  see  if  I  do!  You  glare  as  if  I 
were  some  kind  of  abnormal  beast  eating  with  its  eyes, 
or  winking  with  its  mouth." 

"You  do  wink  with  your  mouth,"  I  said. 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  147 

mean  I  lie?  All  romantic  natures  embroider 
truth.  I  have  a  romantic  nature.  It's  growing  more 
romantic  every  minute  since  I  met  you.  I  started  this 
adventure  for  what  I  could  get  out  of  it.  I'm  going  on  to 
the  end,  bitter  or  sweet,  for  les  beaux  yeux  of  Mary  O'Mal- 
ley.  I  don't  grudge  you  the  Becketts'  blessing,  but  I  don't 
know  why  it  shouldn't  be  bestowed  on  us  both,  with 
Dierdre  and  Brian  in  the  background  throwing  flowers. 
You  didn't  love  Jim  Beckett,  for  the  very  good  reason 
that  you  never  met  him :  so,  if  you  owe  no  more  debts  than 
those  you  owe  his  memory,  you're  luckier  than " 

It  was  not  I  who  cut  his  words  short,  though  I  was  on 
the  point  of  breaking  in.  Perhaps  I  should  have  flung  at 
him  the  truth  about  Jim  Beckett  if  something  had  not 
happened  to  snatch  my  thoughts  from  O'Farrell  and  his 
impudence.  We  had  just  passed  the  quarter  of  the  town 
saved  by  Sceur  Julie,  when  out  from  the  gaping  doorway 
of  a  ruined  house  stepped  Paul  Herter. 

He  came  straight  to  me,  ignoring  my  companion. 

"I  was  waiting  for  you,"  he  said.  "Will  you  walk  on  a 
little  way  with  me?  There  are  things  I  should  like  to 
speak  about." 

All  the  hurt  anger  I  had  felt  was  gone  like  the  shadow 
of  a  flitting  cloud.  "Oh,  yes!"  I  exclaimed.  "I  shall 
be  very,  very  glad." 

Whether  O'Farrell  had  the  grace  to  drop  behind,  or 
whether  I  pushed  ahead  I  don't  know,  but  next  moment 
Doctor  Herter  and  I  were  pacing  along,  side  by  side, 
keeping  well  ahead  of  the  others,  in  spite  of  his  limp. 

"I  thought  I  never  wanted  to  see  you  again,  Mary 
O'Malley,"  he  said;  "but  that  glimpse  I  had,  in  the 


148  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

hospice,  showed  me  my  mistake.  I  couldn't  stand  it 
to  be  so  near  and  let  you  go  out  of  my  life  without  a  word 
— not  after  seeing  your  face." 

"It  makes  me  happy  to  hear  that,"  I  answered.  "I 
was  disappointed  when  you  avoided  me  the  other  night, 
and — hurt  to-day  when  you  slammed  the  door." 

"How  did  you  know  I  avoided  you?  The  girl  promised 
to  hold  her  tongue." 

"She  kept  her  promise.  She  was  pleased  to  keep  it, 
because  she  dislikes  me.  But  I  heard  your  name  next 
day  and  understood.  I — I  heard  other  things,  too.  If 
you  wouldn't  be  angry,  I  should  like  to  tell  you  how 
I--" 

"Don't  tell  me." 

"I  won't  then.  But  I  feel  very  strongly.  And  you 
will  let  me  tell  you  how  grieved  I  should  have  been,  if — if 
that  slammed  door  had  been  the  end  between  us." 

"The  end  between  us  was  long  ago." 

"Not  in  my  thoughts,  for  I  never  meant  to  hurt  you. 
I  never  stopped  being  your  friend,  in  spite  of  all  the 
unkind,  unjust  things  you  said  to  me.  I'm  proud  now 
that  I  had  your  friendship  once,  even  if  I  haven't  it  now." 

"You  had  everything  there  was  in  me — except  friend 
ship.  Now,  of  that  everything,  only  ashes  are  left.  The 
fires  have  burnt  out.  You've  heard  what  I  suppose  they 
call  my  story,  so  you  know  why.  If  those  fires  weren't 
dead,  I  shouldn't  have  dared  trust  myself  to  risk  this 
talk  with  you.  As  it  is — I  let  your  eyes  call  me  back. 
Not  that  they  called  consciously.  It  was  the  past  that 
called "  * 

"They  would  have  called  consciously  if  you'd  given 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  149 

them  time!"  I  ventured  to  smile  at  him,  with  a  look 
that  asked  for  kindness.  He  did  not  smile  back,  but  he 
did  not  frown.  His  deep-set  eyes,  in  their  hollow  sockets, 
gazed  at  me  as  if  they  were  memorizing  each  feature. 

"You're  lovelier  than  ever,  Mary,"  he  said.  "There's 
something  different  about  your  face.  You've  suffered." 

"My  brother  is  blind." 

"Ah!    There's  more  than  that." 

"Yes." 

"You  loved  the  son  of  these  rich  people  the  girl  told 
me  about?  She  says  you  didn't  love  him,  but  she's 
wrong — isn't  she?" 

"She's  wrong.  She  knows  about  things  I've  done, 
but  nothing  about  what  I  think  or  feel.  I  did  love  Jim 
Beckett,  Doctor  Paul.  You  don't  mind  being  called  by 
the  old  name?  I've  learned  how  it  hurts  to  love." 

"That  will  do  you  no  harm,  Mary.  I  can  speak  with 
you  about  such  things  now,  for  the  spirit  of  a  dead  woman 
stands  between  us.  I  didn't  love  her  when  she  was  alive. 
But  if  I  hadn't  married  her  and  brought  her  to  France  she'd 
be  living  now.  She  died  through  me — and  for  me.  I  think 
of  her  with  immense  tenderness  and — a  kind  of  loyalty; 
a  fierce  loyalty.  I  don't  know  if  you  understand." 

"Indeed  I  do!     I  almost  envy  her  that  brave  death." 

"We  won't  talk  of  her  any  more  now,"  Herter  said 
with  a  sigh.  "  I've  a  feeling  she  wouldn't  like  us  to  discuss 
her,  together.  She  used  to  be — jealous  of  you,  poor  girl! 
There  are  other  things  I  wanted  to  say.  The  first — but 
you've  guessed  it  already! — is  this:  the  minute  I  looked 
into  your  face,  there  in  the  hospice,  I  forgave  you  the 
pain  you  made  me  suffer.  In  the  first  shock  of  meeting 


150  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

your  eyes,  I  didn't  realize  that  I'd  forgiven.  It  wasn't 
till  I'd  slammed  the  door  that  I  knew." 

I  didn't  repeat  that  I  had  not  purposely  done  anything 
which  needed  forgiveness.  I  only  looked  at  him  with 
all  the  kindness  and  pity  in  my  heart,  and  waited  until 
he  should  go  on. 

"The  second  thing  I  wanted  to  say  is,  that  just  the  one 
look  told  me  you  weren't  happy  and  gay  as  you  used  to 
be.  When  I'd  shut  the  door,  I  could  still  see  you  clearly, 
as  if  I  had  the  power  to  look  through  the  wood.  I  said 
to  myself,  that  girl's  eyes  have  got  the  sadness  of  the  whole 
world  in  them.  They  seem  as  if  they  were  begging  for 
help,  and  didn't  know  where  on  earth  it  was  coming 
from.  Was  that  a  true  impression?  I  waited  to  ask 
you  this,  even  more  than  to  see  you  again." 

"It  is  true,"  I  confessed.  "There's  only  this  difference 
between  my  feelings  and  your  impression  of  them.  I 
know  there's  no  help  on  earth  for  me.  Such  help  as  there 
is,  I  get  from  another  place.  Do  you  remember  how  I 
used  to  talk  about  the  dear  Padre  who  was  our  guardian 
— my  brother's  and  mine — and  how  I  told  him  nearly 
everything  good  and  bad  that  I  thought  or  did?  Well,  he 
went  to  the  front  as  a  chaplain  and  he  has  been  killed.  But 
I  go  on  writing  him  letters,  exactly  as  if  he  could  give  me 
advice  and  comfort,  or  scold  me  in  the  old  way." 

"What  about  your  brother?  The  girl— Miss  O'Farrell 
she  called  herself,  I  think — said  he  was  with  you  on  this 
journey.  And  to-day  I  recognized  him  at  Soeur  Julie's, 
from  his  likeness  to  you.  I  shouldn't  have  guessed  he 
was  blind.  He  has  a  beautiful  face.  Do  you  get  no  com 
fort  from  him?'3 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  151 

"Much  comfort  from  his  presence  and  love,"  I  said.  "But 
I  try  to  keep  him  happy.  I  don't  bother  him  with  my  trou 
bles.  I  won't  even  let  him  talk  of  them.  They're  taboo." 

"I  wish  I  could  help  you!"  Herter  exclaimed. 

"Your  wish  is  a  help." 

"Ah,  but  I'd  like  to  give  more  than  that!  I'm  going 
away — that's  the  third  thing  I  wanted  to  tell  you.  A  little 
while  ago  I  was  glad  to  be  going  (so  far  as  it's  in  me,  nowa 
days,  to  be  glad  of  anything)  because  I — I've  been  given  a 
sort  of — mission.  Since  we've  had  this  talk,  I'd  put  off 
going  if  I  could.  But  I  can't.  Is  your  brother's  case  past 
cure?" 

"It's  not  absolutely  hopeless.  Doctor  Paul,  this  is  a 
confidence!  It's  to  try  and  cure  him  that  I'm  with  the 
Becketts.  He  doesn't  know — and  I  can't  explain  more  to 
you.  But  a  specialist  in  Paris  ordered  Brian  a  life  in  the 
open  air,  and  as  much  pleasure  and  interest  as  possible. 
You  see,  it's  the  optic  nerve  that  was  paralyzed  in  a  strange 
way  by  shell  shock.  Some  day  Brian's  sight  may — just 
possibly  may — come  back  all  of  a  sudden." 

"Ah,  that's  interesting.  I'm  not  an  oculist,  but  I  know 
one  or  two  of  the  best  men,  who  have  made  great  reputa 
tions  since  this  war.  Who  was  your  specialist  in  Paris?  " 

I  told  him. 

"A  good  man,"  he  pronounced,  "but  I  have  a  friend 
who  is  better.  I'll  write  you  a  letter  to  him.  You  can 
send  it  if  you  choose.  That's  one  service  I  can  do  for  you, 
Mary.  It  may  prove  a  big  one.  But  I  wish  there  were 
something  else — something  for  you,  yourself.  Maybe  there 
will  be  one  day.  Who  can  tell?  If  that  day  comes,  I 
shan't  be  found  wanting  or  forgetful." 


152  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

"It's  worth  a  lot  to  have  met  you  and  had  this  talk/' 
I  said.  "It's  been  like  a  warm  fire  to  cold  hands.  I  do 
hope,  dear  Doctor  Paul,  that  you're  not  going  on  a  dan 
gerous  mission?" 

He  laughed — the  quaint  laugh  I  remembered,  like  a 
crackling  of  dry  brushwood.  "No  more  danger  for  me 
in  it  than  there  is  for  a  bit  of  toasted  cheese  in  a  rat- 
trap." 

"What  a  queer  comparison!"  I  said.  "It  sounds  as  if 
you  were  going  to  be  a  bait  to  deceive  a  rat." 

"Multiply  the  singular  into  the  plural,  and  your  quick 
wit  has  deciphered  my  parable." 

"I'm  afraid  my  wit  doesn't  deserve  the  compliment.  I 
can't  imagine  what  your  mission  really  is.  Unless "  * 

"Unless — what?  No!  Don't  let  us  go  any  further. 
Because  I  mustn't  tell  you  more,  even  if  you  should  happen 
to  guess.  I've  told  you  almost  too  much  already.  But 
confidence  for  confidence.  You  gave  me  one.  Consider 
that  I've  confided  something  to  you  in  return.  There's 
just  a  millionth  chance  that  my  mission — whatever  it  is — 
may  make  me  of  use  to  you.  Give  me  an  address  that  will 
find  you  always,  and  then — I  must  be  going.  I  have  to 
return  to  the  hospice  and  see  some  patients.  No  need  to 
write  the  directions.  Better  not,  in  fact.  I  shall  have  no 
difficulty  in  remembering  anything  that  concerns  you,  even 
the  most  complicated  address." 

"It's  not  complicated,"  I  laughed;  and  gave  him  the 
name  of  the  Paris  bankers  in  whose  care  the  Becketts 
allow  Brian  and  me  to  have  letters  sent — Morgan  Harjes. 

He  repeated  the  address  after  me,  and  then  stopped, 
holding  out  his  hand.  "That's  all,"  he  said  abruptly.  "I 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  153 

shall  be  glad,  whatever  happens,  that  I  waited,  and  had 
this  talk  with  you.  Good-bye." 

"Good-bye — and  good  luck  in  the  mission,'*  I  echoed. 

He  pressed  my  hand  so  hard  that  it  hurt,  and  with  one 
last  look  turned  away.  He  did  not  go  far,  however,  but 
stopped  on  his  way  back  to  ask  Dierdre  O'Farrell  about  her 
arm.  She  and  Brian  (Puck  had  joined  the  Becketts)  were 
only  a  few  paces  behind  me,  and  pausing  involuntarily  I 
heard  what  was  said.  It  was  easy  to  see  that  Dierdre 
wished  me  to  hear  her  part. 

"My  arm  is  going  on  very  well,"  she  informed  her 
benefactor.  "I  thank  you  again  for  your  kindness  in 
attending  to  it.  But  I  don't  think  it  was  kind  to  order  me 
to  keep  a  secret,  and  then  give  it  away  yourself.  You 
made  me  seem  an — ungracious  pig  and  a  fool.  I  shouldn't 
mind  that,  if  it  did  you  good,  in  return  for  the  good  you've 
done  me.  But  since  it  was  for  nothing " 

"I  apologize,"  Herter  broke  in.  "I  meant  what  I  said 
then.  But  a  power  outside  myself  was  too  strong  for  me. 
Maybe  it  will  be  the  same  for  you  some  day.  Meanwhile, 
don't  make  the  mistake  I  made :  don't  do  other  people  an 
injustice." 

Leaving  Dierdre  at  bay  between  anger  and  amazement, 
he  stared  with  professional  eagerness  into  Brian's  sightless 
eyes,  and  stalked  off  toward  the  hospice. 


CHAPTER   XVI 

SINCE  I  wrote  you  last,  Padre,  I  have  been  in  the 
trenches — real,  live  trenches,  not  the  faded,  half- 
filled-up  ghosts  of  trenches  where  men  fought  long 
ago.  I  had  to  give  my  word  not  to  tell  or  write  any  one 
just  where  these  trenches  are,  so  I  won't  put  details  in 
black  and  white,  even  in  pages  which  are  only  for  you  and 
me.  I  keep  this  book  that  you  gave  me  in  my  hand-bag, 
and  no  eyes  but  mine  see  it — unless,  dear  Padre,  you  come 
and  look  over  my  shoulder  while  I  scribble,  as  I  often  feel 
you  do!  Still — something  might  happen:  an  automobile 
accident;  or  the  bag  might  be  lost  or  stolen,  though  it's 
not  a  gorgeously  attractive  one,  like  that  in  which  Mother 
Beckett  carries  Jim's  letters. 

It  was  the  day  after  Luneville  and  Gerbeviller.  We 
started  out  once  again  from  Nancy,  no  matter  in  which 
direction,  but  along  a  wonderful  road.  Not  that  the 
scenery  was  beautiful.  We  didn't  so  much  as  think  of 
scenery.  The  thrill  was  in  the  passing  show,  and  later 
in  the  "camouflage."  We  were  going  to  be  given  a 
glimpse  of  the  Front  which  the  communiques  (when  they 
mention  it  at  all  nowadays)  speak  of  as  calm.  Its  alleged 
"calmness"  gave  us  non-combatants  our  chance  to  pay  it 
a  visit;  but  many  wires  had  been  pulled  to  get  us  there,  and 
we  had  dwindled  to  a  trio,  consisting  of  Father  Beckett, 
Brian,  and  me.  Mother  Beckett  is  not  made  for  trenches, 

154 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  155 

even  the  calmest,  and  there  was  no  permission  for  the 
occupants  of  the  Red  Cross  taxi,  who  are  not  officially  of 
our  party.  They  have  their  own  police  pass  for  the 
war-zone,  but  all  special  plums  are  for  the  Becketts,  shared 
by  the  O'Malleys;  and  this  visit  to  the  trenches  was  an 
extra-special  superplum. 

All  along  the  way,  coming  and  going,  tearing  to  meet  us, 
or  leaving  us  behind,  splashed  with  gray  mud  after  a  night 
of  rain,  motor-lorries  sped.  They  carried  munitions  or 
food  to  the  front,  or  brought  back  tired  soldiers  bound  for 
a  place  of  rest,  and  their  roofs  were  marvellously  "camou 
flaged"  in  a  blend  of  blue  and  green  paint  splotched  with 
red.  For  aeroplanes  they  must  have  looked,  in  their  pro 
cessions,  like  drifting  mist  over,  meadowland.  Shooting 
in  and  out  among  them,  like  slim  gray  swordfish  in  a  school 
of  porpoise,  were  military  cars  crowded  with  smart  officers 
who  saluted  the  lieutenant  escorting  us,  and  stared  in 
surprise  at  sight  of  a  woman.  A  sprinkling  of  these  officers 
were  Americans,  and  they  would  have  astonished  us  more 
than  we  astonished  them  had  we  not  known  that  we  should 
see  Americans.  They  were  to  be,  indeed,  the  "feature" 
of  the  great  show;  and  though  Mr.  Beckett  was  calm  in 
manner  to  match  the  Front,  I  knew  from  his  face  that  he 
was  deeply  moved  by  the  thought  of  seeing  "boys  from 
home  "  fighting  for  France  as  his  dead  son  had  fought. 

At  each  small  village  we  saw  soldiers  who  had  been  sent 
to  the  "back  of  the  Front"  for  a  few  days'  change  from  the 
trenches.  They  lounged  on  long  wooden  benches  before 
humble  houses  where  they  had  logement;  they  sat 
at  tables  borrowed  from  kitchens,  earnestly  engaged 
at  dominoes  or  manille,  or  they  played  boules  in 


156  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

narrow  grass  alleys  beside  the  muddy  road.  For  them 
we  had  packed  all  vacant  space  in  the  auto  with  a  cargo  of 
cigarettes;  and  white  teeth  flashed  and  blue  arms  waved 
in  gratitude  as  we  went  by.  I  think  Father  Beckett  was 
happier  than  he  had  been  since  we  left  Paris. 

At  last  we  came  to  a  part  of  the  road  that  was  "camou 
flaged"  with  a  screen  of  branches  fixed  into  wire.  There 
was  no  great  need  of  it  in  these  days,  our  lieutenant  ex 
plained,  but  Heaven  knew  when  it  might  be  urgently 
wanted  again:  perhaps  to-morrow!  And  this  was  where 
we  said  "au  revoir"  to  our  car.  She  was  wheeled  out  of 
the  way  on  to  a  strip  of  damp  grass,  under  a  convenient 
group  of  trees  where  no  prowling  enemy  plane  might 
"spot"  her;  and  we  set  out  to  walk  for  a  short  distance 
to  what  had  once  been  a  farmhouse.  Now,  what  was  left 
of  it  had  another  use.  A  board  walk  (well  above  the  mud), 
which  led  to  the  new,  unpainted  door,  was  guarded  by 
sentinels,  and  explanations  were  given  and  papers  shown 
before  a  rather  elderly  French  captain  appeared  to  greet 
us.  Arrangements  had  been  made  for  our  reception,  but 
we  had  to  be  identified;  and  when  all  was  done  we  were 
given  a  good  welcome.  Also  we  were  given  helmets,  and 
I  was  vain  enough  to  fancy  I  had  never  worn  a  more 
becoming  hat. 

Besides  our  own  escort — the  lieutenant  who  had  brought 
us  from  Nancy— we  had  a  captain  and  a  lieutenant  to 
guide  us  into  the  "calmness"  of  the  trenches  (the  captain 
and  a  lieutenant  for  Mr.  Beckett  and  Brian,  ^the  other 
lieutenant  for  me)  and  one  would  have  thought  that  they 
had  never  before  seen  a  woman  in  or  out  of  a  helmet! 
Down  in  a  deep  cellar-like  hole,  which  they  called  "Tauti- 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  157 

chambre,"  all  three  officers  coached  Father  Beckett  and  me 
in  trench  manners.  As  for  Brian,  it  was  clear  to  them 
that  he  was  no  stranger  to  trench  life,  and  their  treatment 
of  him  was  perfect.  They  made  no  fuss,  as  tactless  folk 
do  over  blind  men;  but,  while  feigning  to  regard  him  as 
one  of  themselves,  they  slily  watched  and  protected  his 
movements  as  a  proud  mother  might  the  first  steps  of  a 
child. 

On  we  went  from  the  antichambre  into  a  long  mouldy 
passage  dug  deep  into  the  earth.  It  was  the  link  be 
tween  trenches;  and  now  and  then  a  sentinel  popped 
out  from  behind  a  queer  barrier  built  up  as  a  protection 
against  "les  eclats  d'obus. "  "This  is  the  way  the  wounded 
come  back,"  said  one  of  the  lieutenants,  "when  there  are 
any  wounded.  Just  now  (or  you  would  not  be  here, 
Mademoiselle)  there  is" — he  finished  in  English — "noth 
ing  doing. " 

I  laughed.     "  Who  taught  you  that?  " 

"You  will  see,"  he  replied,  making  a  nice  little  mystery. 
"You  will  see  who  taught  it  to  me — and  then  some ! " 

That  was  a  beautiful  ending  for  the  sentence,  and  his 
American  accent  was  perfect,  even  if  the  meaning  of  the 
poor  man's  quotation  was  a  little  uncertain ! 

We  turned  several  times,  and  I  had  begun  to  think  of  the 
Minotaur's  labyrinth,  when  the  passage  knotted  itself  into 
a  low-roofed  room,  open  at  both  ends,  sa\e  for  bomb 
screens,  with  a  trench  leading  dismally  off  from  an  opposite 
doorway.  "When  is  a  door  not  a  door?"  was  a  conun 
drum  of  my  childhood,  and  I  think  the  answer  was:  "When 
it's  ajar."  But  nowadays  there  is  a  better  replique-.  A 
door  is  not  a  door  when  it's  a  dug-out.  It  is  then  a  hole, 


153  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

kept  from  falling  in  upon  itself  by  a  log  of  wood  or  any 
thing  handy.  This  time,  the  "anything  handy"  seemed 
to  be  part  of  an  old  wheelbarrow,  and  on  top  were  some 
sandbags.  In  the  room,  which  was  four  times  as  long  as 
it  was  broad,  and  twelve  times  longer  than  high,  a  few  vague 
soldier-forms  crouched  over  a  meal  on  the  floor,  their 
tablecloth  being  a  Paris  newspaper.  They  scrambled  to 
their  feet,  but  could  not  stand  upright,  and  to  see  their 
Stooping  salute  to  stooping  officers  in  the  smoky  twilight, 
was  like  a  vision  in  a  dark,  convex  mirror. 

As  we  wound  our  way  past  the  screen  at  the  far  end  of 
the  cellar  dining-room,  my  lieutenant  explained  the  method 
in  placing  each  pare-6clat,  as  he  called  the  screen.  "You 
see,  Mademoiselle,  if  a  bomb  happened  to  break  through 
and  kill  us,  the  screen  would  save  the  men  beyond,"  he 
said;  then,  remembering  with  a  start  that  he  was  talking 
to  a  woman,  he  hurried  to  add:  "Oh,  but  we  shall  not  be 
killed.  Have  no  fear.  There's  nothing  of  that  sort  on 
our  programme  to-day — at  least,  not  where  we  shall 
take?/<m." 

"  Do  I  look  as  if  I  were  afraid?  "  I  asked. 

"No,  you  look  very  brave,  Mademoiselle,"  he  flattered 
me.  "I'm  sure  it  is  more  than  the  helmet  which  gives 
you  that  look.  I  believe,  if  you  were  allowed  you  would 
go  on  past  the  safety  zone. " 

"Where  does  the  safety  zone  end?"  I  curiously  ques 
tioned. 

"It  is  different  on  different  days.  If  you  had  come  yes 
terday,  you  could  have  had  a  good  long  promenade. 
Indeed  that  was  what  we  hoped,  when  we  arranged  to 
entertain  your  party.  But  unfortunately  the  gentlemen 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  155 

in  the  opposing  trenches  discovered  that  Les  Sammies  had 
arrived  on  our  secteur.  They  wanted  to  give  them  a  recep 
tion,  and  so — your  walk  has  to  be  shortened,  Mademoi 
selle." 

Suddenly  I  felt  sick.  I  had  the  sensation  Soeur  Julie 
described  herself  as  feeling  when  she  met  the  giant  German 
officers.  But  it  was  not  fear.  "Do  you  mean — while 
we're  here,  safe — like  tourists  on  a  pleasure  jaunt,"  I 
stammered,  "that  American  soldiers  are  being  killed — in 

the  trenches  close  by  ?     It's  horrible !    I  can't " 

"  II  nefautpas  se  faire  de  la  bile,  as  ourpoilus  say,  when 
they  mean  'Don't  worry,'  Mademoiselle, "  the  lieutenant 
soothed  me.  "If  there  were  any  killing  along  this  secteur 
you  would  hear  the  guns  boom,  n'est-ce-pas  ?  You 
had  not  stopped  to  think  of  that.  There  was  a  little  affair 
at  dawn,  I  don't  conceal  it  from  you.  A  surprise — a 
coup  de  main  against  the  Americans  the  Boches  intended. 
They  thought,  as  all  has  been  quiet  on  our  Front  for  so 
long,  we  should  expect  nothing.  But  the  surprise  didn't 
work.  They  got  as  good  as  they  sent,  and  no  one  on  our 
side  was  killed.  That  I  swear  to  you,  Mademoiselle! 
There  were  a  few  wounded,  yes,  but  no  fatalities.  The 
trouble  is  that  now  things  have  begun  to  move,  they  may 
not  sit  still  for  long,  and  we  cannot  take  risks  with  our 
visitors.  The  mountain  must  come  to  Mahomet.  That 
is,  les  Sammies  must  call  upon  you,  instead  of  you  upon 
them.  The  reception  room  is  chez  nous  Frangais.  It  is 
ready,  and  you  will  see  it  in  a  moment. " 

Almost  as  he  spoke  we  came  to  a  dug-out  of  far  more 
imposing  architecture  than  the  hole  between  trenches 
which  we  had  seen.  We  had  to  stoop  to  go  in,  but  once  in 


160  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

we  could  stand  upright,  even  Brian,  who  towered  several 
inches  above  the  other  men.  The  place  was  lighted  with 
many  guttering  candles,  and  tears  sprang  to  my  eyes  at 
the  pathos  of  the  decorations.  Needless  to  explain  that 
the  French  and  American  flags  which  draped  the  dark 
walls  were  there  in  our  honour !  Also  there  were  a  Colonel, 
a  table,  benches,  chairs,  some  glasses,  and  one  precious 
bottle  of  champagne,  enough  for  a  large  company  to  sip,  if 
not  to  drink,  each  other's  health.  Hardly  had  we  been 
introduced  to  the  decorations,  including  the  Colonel,  when 
the  Americans  began  to  arrive,  three  young  officers 
and  two  who  had  hardened  into  warlike  middle  age.  It 
was  heart-warming  to  see  them  meet  Mr.  Beckett,  and 
their  chivalric  niceness  to  Brian  and  me  was  somehow 
different  from  any  other  niceness  I  remember — except 
Jim's. 

Not  that  one  of  the  men  looked  like  Jim,  or  had  a  voice 
like  his:  yet,  when  they  spoke,  and  smiled,  and  shook 
hands,  I  seemed  to  see  Jim  standing  behind  them,  smiling 
as  he  had  smiled  at  me  on  our  one  day  together.  I  seemed 
to  hear  his  voice  in  an  undertone,  as  if  it  mingled  with 
theirs,  and  I  wondered  if  Jim's  father  had  the  same  almost 
supernatural  impression  that  his  son  had  come  into  the 
dug-out  room  with  that  little  band  of  his  countrymen. 

It  is  strange  how  a  woman  can  be  homesick  for  a  man 
she  has  known  only  one  day;  but  she  can — she  can — for  a 
Jim  Beckett!  He  was  so  vital,  so  central  in  life,  known 
even  for  a  day,  that  after  his  going  the  world  is  a  back 
ground  from  which  his  figure  has  been  cut  out,  leaving  a 
blank  place.  These  jolly,  brave  American  soldier-men 
made  me  want  so  desperately  to  see  Jim  that  I  wished  a 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  161 

bomb  would  drop  in — just  a  small  bomb,  touching  only 
me,  and  whisking  me  away  to  the  place  where  he  is.  In 
body  he  could  not  forgive  me,  of  course,  for  what  I've 
done;  but  in  spirit  he  might  forgive  my  spirit  if  it  travelled 
a  long  way  to  see  his ! 

I  am  almost  sure  that  the  Americans  did  bring  Jim  back 
to  Father  Beckett,  as  to  me,  for  though  he  was  cheerful, 
and  even  made  jokes  to  show  that  he  mustn't  be  treated 
as  a  mourner,  there  was  one  piteous  sign  of  emotion  which 
no  self-control  could  hide.  I  saw  his  throat  work — the 
throat  of  an  old  man — his  "Adam's  apple"  going  con 
vulsively  up  and  down  like  a  tossed  ball  in  a  fountain  jet. 
Then,  lest  I  should  sob  while  his  eyes  were  dry,  I  looked 
away. 

We  all  had  champagne  out  of  the  marvellous  bottle 
which  had  been  hoarded  during  long  months  in  case  of 
"a  great  occasion,"  and  we  economized  sips  but  not 
healths.  We  drank  to  each  one  of  the  Allies  in  turn,  and 
to  a  victorious  peace.  Then  the  officers — French  and 
American — began  telling  us  trench  tales — no  grim  stories, 
only  those  at  which  we  could  laugh.  One  was  what  an 
American  captain  called  a  "peach";  but  it  was  a  French 
man  who  told  it:  the  American  contingent  have  had  110 
such  adventures  yet. 

The  thing  happened  some  time  ago,  before  the  "liveli 
ness"  died  down  along  this  secteur.  One  spring  day,  in  a 
rainy  fog  like  a  gray  curtain,  a  strange  pair  of  legs  appeared, 
prowling  alongside  a  French  trench.  They  were  not 
French  legs ;  but  instantly  two  pairs  of  French  arms  darted 
out  under  the  stage-drop  of  fog  to  jerk  them  in.  Down 
came  a  feldwebel  on  top  of  them,  squealing  desolately 


162  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

"Kamerad!"  He  squealed  many  more  guttural  utter 
ances,  but  not  one  of  the  soldiers  in  blue  helmets,  who  soon 
swarmed  round  him,  could  understand  a  word  he  said. 
"Why  the  crowd?  "wondered  the  Captain  of  the  company, 
appearing  from  a  near-by  dug-out.  The  queer  quarry 
was  dragged  to  the  officer's  feet,  and  fortunately  the  Cap 
tain,  an  Alsatian,  had  enough  German  for  a  catechism. 

"What  were  you  doing  close  to  our  lines?"  he  de 
manded. 

"Oh,  Herr  Captain,  I  did  not  know  they  were  your  lines. 
I  thought  they  were  ours.  In  our  trench  we  are  hungry, 
very  hungry.  I  thought  in  the  mist  I  could  safely  go  a 
little  way  and  seek  for  some  potatoes.  Where  we  are  they 
say  there  was  once  a  fine  potato  field.  Not  long  ago,  one 
of  our  men  came  back  with  half  a  dozen  beauties.  Ah, 
they  were  good!  I  was  empty  enough  to  risk  anything, 
Herr  Captain.  But  I  had  no  luck.  And,  worse  still,  the 
fog  led  me  astray.  Spare  my  life,  sir ! " 

"We  will  spare  you  what  is  worth  more  than  a  little 
thing  like  your  life,"  said  the  Captain.  "We'll  spare  you 
some  of  our  good  food,  to  show  you  that  we  French  do  not 
have  to  gnaw  our  finger-nails,  like  you  miserable  Bodies. 
Men,  take  this  animal  away  and  feed  it!" 

The  men  obeyed,  enjoying  the  joke.  The  dazed  Kam 
erad  was  stuffed  with  sardines,  meat,  bread,  and  butter 
(of  which  he  had  forgotten  the  existence),  delicious  cheese, 
and  chocolates.  At  last  the  magic  meal  was  topped  off 
with  smoking  hot  black  coffee,  a  thimbleful  of  brandy, 
and — a  cigar  !  Tobacco  and  cognac  may  have  been  cheap , 
but  they  made  the  feldwebel  feel  as  if  he  had  died  and  gone 
to  heaven. 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  163 

When  he  had  eaten  till  his  belt  was  tight  for  the  first  time 
in  many  moons,  back  he  was  hustled  to  the  Captain. 

"Well — you  have  had  something  better  than  potatoes? 
Bon  !  Now,  out  of  this,  quicker  than  you  came!  Your 
mother  may  admire  your  face,  but  we  others,  we  have  seen 
enough  of  it." 

"But, Herr  Captain," pleaded  the  poor  wretch, loth  to  be 
banished  from  Paradise,  "I  am  your  prisoner." 

"Not  at  all,"  coolly  replied  the  officer.  "We  can't  be 
bothered  with  a  single  prisoner.  What  is  one  flea  on  a 
blanket?  Another  time,  if  we  come  across  you  again  with 
enough  of  your  comrades  to  make  the  game  worth  while, 
why  then,  perhaps  we  may  give  ourselves  the  pain  of  keep 
ing  you.  You've  seen  that  we  have  enough  food  to  feed 
your  whole  trench,  and  never  miss  it." 

Away  flew  the  German  over  the  top,  head  over  heels,  not 
unassisted:  and  after  they  had  laughed  awhile,  his  hosts 
and  foes  forgot  him.  But  not  so  could  he  forget  them. 
That  night,  after  dark,  he  came  trotting  back  with  fifteen 
friends,  all  crying  "Kamerad!"  eager  to  deliver  themselves 
up  to  captivity  for  the  flesh-pots  of  Egypt. 

"But — we're  not  to  go  without  a  glimpse  of  the  Sammies, 
are  we?"  I  asked,  when  stories  and  champagne  were 
finished. 

The  "Sammies'"  officers  laughed.  "The  boys  don't 
love  that  name,  you  know !  But  it  sticks  like  a  burr.  It's 
harder  to  get  rid  of  than  the  Boches.  As  for  seeing  them — 
(the  boys,  not  the  Boches!)  well "  And  a  consulta 
tion  followed. 

The  trenches  beyond  our  dug-out  drawing  room  could 
not  be  guaranteed  "safe  as  the  Bank  of  England  "for  non- 


164  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

combatants  that  day,  and  no  one  wanted  to  be  responsible 
for  our  venturing  farther.  Still,  if  we  couldn't  go  to  the 
boys,  a  "bunch"  of  the  boys  could  come  to  us.  A  lieu 
tenant  dashed  away,  and  presently  returned  with  six  of 
the  tallest,  brownest,  best-looking  young  men  I  ever  saw. 
Their  khaki  and  their  beautiful  new  helmets  were  so  like 
British  khaki  and  helmets  that  I  shouldn't  have  been 
expert  enough  to  recognize  them  as  American.  But  some 
how  the  merest  amateur  would  never  have  mistaken  those 
boys  for  their  British  brothers.  I  can't  tell  where  the 
difference  lay.  All  I  can  say  is  that  it  was  there.  Were 
their  jaws  squarer?  No,  it  couldn't  have  been  that,  for 
British  jaws  are  firm  enough,  and  have  need  to  be,  Heaven 
knows!  Were  their  chins  more  prominent?  But  millions 
of  British  chins  are  prominent.  My  brain  collapsed  in  the 
strain  after  comparisons,  abandoned  the  effort  and  drank 
in  a  draught  of  rich,  ripe  American  slang  as  a  glorious  pick- 
me-up.  Nov.  wonder  the  French  officers  in  liaison  have 
caught  the  new  "code."  The  coming  of  those  brown 
boys  with  their  bright  and  glittering  teeth  and  witty  words 
made  up  to  us  for  miles  of  trenches  we  hadn't  seen.  Gee, 
but  they  were  bully!  Oh,  boy  !  Get  hep  to  that! 


CHAPTER  XVII 

FATHER   BECKETT   must    have    suffered   dark 
hours  of  reaction  after   seeing   those   soldier-sons 
of  American  fathers,  if  there   had  been  time  to 
think.    But  we  flashed  back  to  Nancy  in  haste,  for  a 
late   dinner   and   adieux   to   our  friends.     Brian   and   I 
snatched  the  story  of  our  day's  adventure  from  his  mouth 
for  Mother  Beckett;  and  luckily  he  was  too  tired  to  give 
her  a  new  version.     I  heard  in  the  morning  that  he  had 
slept  through  an  air  raid ! 

I,  too,  was  tired,  and  for  the  same  reason:  but  I  could 
not  sleep.  Waking  dreams  marched  through  my  mind — • 
dreams  of  Jim  as  he  must  have  looked  in  khaki,  dreams 
which  made  an  air  raid  more  or  less  seem  unimportant. 
As  the  clocks  of  Nancy  told  the  hours,  I  was  in  a  mood 
for  the  first  time  since  Gerbeviller  to  puzzle  out  the  mean 
ing  of  Paul  Herter's  parable. 

What  had  he  meant  by  saying  that  his  mission  would 
be  no  more  dangerous  than  a  rat-trap  for  a  bit  of  toasted 
cheese? 

I  had  exclaimed,  "That  sounds  as  if  you  where  to  bait 
the  trap!"  but  he  had  not  encouraged  me  to  guess.  And 
there  had  been  so  much  else  to  think  of,  just  then !  His 
offer  of  introductions  to  specialists  for  Brian  had  appealed 
to  me  more  than  a  vague  suggestion  of  service  to  myself 
"some  day." 

165 


166  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

But  now,  through  the  darkness  of  night,  a  ray  like  a 
searchlight  struck  clear  upon  his  cryptic  hint. 

Somehow,  Herter  hoped  to  get  across  the  frontier  into 
Germany !  His  question,  whether  I  had  loved  Jim  Beckett, 
was  not  an  idle  one.  He  had  not  asked  it  through  mere 
curiosity,  or  because  he  was  jealous  of  the  dead.  His 
idea  was  that,  if  I  had  deeply  cared  for  Jim,  I  should  be 
glad  to  know  how  he  had  died,  and  where  his  body  lay. 
Germany  was  the  one  place  where  the  mystery  could  be 
solved.  I  realized  suddenly  that  Doctor  Paul  expected 
i*'some  day"  to  be  in  a  position  to  solve  it. 

"He's  going  into  Germany  as  a  spy,"  I  said  to  myself. 
"He's  a  man  of  German  Lorraine.  German  is  his  native 
language.  Legally  he's  a  German  subject.  He'll  only 
have  to  pretend  that  he  was  caught  by  accident  in  France 
when  the  war  broke  out — and  that  at  last  he  has  escaped. 
All  that  may  be  easy  if  there  are  no  spies  to  give  him  away 
— to  tell  what  he's  been  doing  in  France  since  1914.  The 
trouble  will  be  when  he  wants  to  come  back." 

I  wished  that  I  could  have  seen  the  man  again,  to  have 
bidden  him  a  better  farewell,  to  have  told  him  I'd  pray 
for  his  success.  But  now  it  was  too  late.  Already  he  must 
have  set  off  on  his  "mission,"  and  we  were  to  start  in  the 
morning  for  Verdun. 

The  thought  of  Verdun  alone  was  enough  to  keep  me 
awake  for  the  rest  of  the  night,  to  say  nothing  of  air  raids 
and  speculations  about  Doctor  Paul.  It  seemed  almost 
too  strange  to  be  true  that  we  were  to  see  Verdun — Verdun, 
where  month  after  month  beat  the  heart  of  the  world. 

The  O'Farrells  had  not  got  permission  for  Verdun,  nor 
for  Rheims,  where  we  of  the  great  gray  car  were  going 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  167 

next.  Still  more  than  our  glimpse  of  the  trenches  were 
these  two  places  "extra  special."  The  brother  and  sister 
were  to  start  with  us  from  Nancy,  but  we  (the  Becketts, 
Brian,  and  I)  were  to  part  from  them  at  Bar-le-Duc,  where 
we  would  be  met  by  an  officer  from  Verdun.  Two  days 
later,  we  were  to  meet  again  at  Paris,  and  continue — as 
Puck  impudently  put  it — "our  role  of  ministering  angels," 
along  the  Noyon  front  and  beyond. 

This  programme  was  settled  when — through  influence 
at  Nancy — Father  Beckett's  passes  for  four  had  been 
extended  to  Verdun  and  Rheims.  I  breathed  a  sigh  of 
relief  at  the  prospect  of  two  more  days  without  the  O'Far- 
rells;  and  all  that's  Irish  in  me  trusted  to  luck  that  "some 
thing  might  happen  "  to  part  us  forever.  Why  not?  The 
Red  Cross  taxi  might  break  down  (it  looked  ready  to  shake 
to  pieces  any  minute!).  Dierdre  might  be  taken  ill  (no 
marble  statue  could  be  paler!).  Or  the  pair  might  be 
arrested  by  the  military  police  as  dangerous  spies.  (Really, 
I  wouldn't  "put  it  past"  them!).  But  my  secret  hopes 
were  rudely  jangled  with  my  first  sight  of  Brian  on  the 
Verdun  morning. 

"Molly,  I  hope  you  won't  mind,"  he  said,  "but  I've 
promised  O'Farrell  to  go  with  them  and  meet  you  in  Paris 
to-morrow  night.  I've  already  spoken  to  Mr.  Beckett 
and  he  approves." 

"This  comes  of  my  being  ten  minutes  late!"  I  almost 
— not  quite — cried  aloud.  I'd  hardly  closed  my  eyes 
all  night,  but  had  fallen  into  a  doze  at  dawn  and  overslept 
myself.  Meanwhile  the  O'Farrell  faction  had  got  in  its 
deadly  work! 

I  was  angry  and  disgusted,  yet — as  usual  where  that 


168  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

devil  of  a  Puck  was  concerned — I  had  the  impulse  to 
laugh.  It  was  as  if  he'd  put  his  finger  to  his  nose  and 
chuckled  in  impish  glee:  "You  hope  to  get  rid  of  us,  do 
you,  you  minx?  Well,  I'll  show  you!"  But  I  should 
be  playing  his  game  if  I  lost  my  temper. 

"Why  do  the  O'Farrells  want  you  to  go  with  them?" 
I  "camouflaged"  my  rage. 

>  "It's  Julian  who  wants  me,"  explained  the  dear  boy. 
(Oh,  it  had  come  to  Christian  names!)  "It  seems  Miss 
O'Farrell  has  taken  it  into  her  head  that  none  of  us  likes 
her,  and  that  we've  arranged  this  way  to  get  rid  of  them 
both — letting  them  down  easily  and  making  some  excuse 
not  to  start  again  together  from  Paris.  O'Farrell  thought 
if  I'd  offer  to  go  with  them  and  sit  in  the  back  of  the  car 
while  he  drove  I  could  persuade  her " 

"Well,  I  don't  envy  any  one  the  task  of  persuading 
that  girl  to  believe  a  thing  she  doesn't  wish  to  believe," 
I  exploded.  "My  private  opinion  is,  though,  that  her 
brother's  sister  needs  no  persuading.  The  two  of  them 
want  to  show  me  that  they  have  power " 

Brian  broke  in  with  a  laugh.  "My  child,  you  see  things 
through  a  magnifying  glass!  Is  your  blind  brother  a 
prize  worth  squabbling  over?  I  can  be  of  use  to  the 
Becketts,  it's  true,  when  we  travel  without  a  military 
escort,  or  with  one  young  officer  who  knows  more  about 
seventy-fives  than  about  the  romance  of  history.  I  can 
tell  them  what  I've  read  and  what  I've  seen.  But  at  Ver 
dun  you'll  be  in  the  society  of  generals;  and  at  Rheims  of  as 
many  dignitaries  as  haven't  been  bombarded  out  of  town. 
The  Becketts  don't  need  me.  Perhaps  Miss  O'Farrell 
does." 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  169 

"Perhaps!"  I  repeated. 

Brian  can  see  twice  as  much  as  those  who  have  eyes, 
but  he  would  not  see  my  sarcasm.  Just  then,  however, 
Mrs.  Beckett  joined  us  in  the  hall  of  the  hotel,  where  we 
stood  ready  to  start — all  having  breakfasted  in  our  own 
rooms.  She  guessed  from  my  face  that  I  was  not  pleased 
with  Brian's  plan. 

"  My  dear,  I'd  go  myself  with  poor  little  Dierdre  O'Far- 
rell  instead  of  Brian!"  she  said.  "Verdun  isn't  one  of 
Jim's  towns.  Rheims  is — but  I'd  have  sacrificed  it.  There 
can't  be  much  left  there  to  see.  Only — two  whole  days! 
Father  and  I  haven't  been  parted  so  long  in  our  lives  since 
we  were  married.  I  thought  yesterday,  when  you  were 
away  in  those  trenches,  what  a  coward  I'd  been  not  to 
insist  on  going,  and  what  if  I  never  saw  Father  again !  I 
hope  you  don't  think  I'm  too  selfish!" 

Poor  darling,  selfish  to  travel  in  her  own  car  with  her 
own  husband!  I  just  gave  her  a  look  to  show  what  I 
felt;  but  after  that  I  could  no  longer  object  to  parting 
with  Brian.  Puck  had  got  his  way,  and  I  could  see  by 
the  light  in  his  annoyingly  beautiful  eyes  how  exquisitely 
he  enjoyed  the  situation.  Brian  and  Brian's  kitbag  were 
transferred  to  the  Red  Cross  taxi,  there  and  then,  to  save 
delay  for  us  and  the  officer  who  would  meet  us,  in  case 
the  wretched  car  should  get  a  panne,  en  route  to  Bar-le- 
Duc.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  that  is  what  happened;  or  at 
all  events  when  our  big,  reliable  motor  purred  with  us 
into  Bar-le-Duc,  the  O'Farrells  were  nowhere  to  be  seen. 

Our  officer — another  lieutenant — had  arrived  in  a  little 
Ford;  and  as  we  were  invited  to  lunch  in  the  citadel  of 
Verdun  we  could  not  wait.  I  felt  sure  the  demon  Puck 


170  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

i  . 

had  managed  to  be  late  on  purpose,  so  that  my  Verdun 
day  might  be  spoiled  by  anxiety  for  Brian.  Thus  he  woirld 
kill  two  birds  with  one  stone:  show  how  little  I  gamed 
by  the  enemy's  absence,  and  punish  me  for  not  letting 
him  make  love ! 

The  road  to  Verdun  was  a  wonderful  prelude.  After 
three  years'  Titanic  battling,  how  could  there  be  a  road 
at  all?  I  had  had  vague  visions  of  an  earthly  turmoil,  a 
wilderness  of  shell-holes  where  once  had  gleamed  rich 
meadows  and  vineyards,  with  little  villages  set  jewel-like 
among  them,  and  the  visions  were  true.  But  through 
the  war-worn  desert  always  the  road  unrolled — the  brave 
white  road.  Heaven  alone  could  tell  the  deeds  of  valour 
which  had  achieved  the  impossible,  making  and  remaking 
that  road !  It  should  have  some  great  poem  all  to  itself, 
I  thought;  a  poem  called  "The  Road  to  Verdun."  And 
the  poem  should  be  set  to  music.  I  could  almost  hear 
the  lilt  of  the  verses  as  our  car  slipped  through  the  tangle 
of  motor  camions  and  gun-carriages  on  the  way  thither. 
As  for  the  music,  I  could  really  hear  that  without  flight 
of  fancy:  a  deep,  rolling  undertone  of  heavy  wheels,  of 
jolting  guns,  of  pulsing  engines,  like  a  million  beating 
hearts;  and  out  of  its  muffled  bass  rising  the  lighter  music 
of  men's  voices:  soldiers  singing;  soldiers  going  to  the 
front,  who  shouted  gaily  to  soldiers  going  to  repose; 
soldiers  laughing;  soldier-  music  that  no  hardship  or 
suffering  could  subdue. 

We  had  seen  such  processions  before,  but  none  so  endless 
as  this,  going  both  ways,  as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach. 
We  had  seen  no  such  tremendous  parks  of  artillery  and 
aviation  by  the  roadside,  no  such  store  of  shells  for  big  guns 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  171 

and  little  guns,  no  such  pyramids  of  grenades  for  trenches 
and  aeroplanes.  We  were  engulfed  in  war,  swallowed 
up  in  war.  It  was  thrilling  beyond  words. 

But  all  the  road  flashed  bright  with  thrills.  There  was 
a  thrill  at  "le  Bois  de  Regrets,"  forest  of  dark  regret  for 
the  Prussians  of  1792,  where  the  French  turned  them  back 
— the  forest  which  Goethe  saw:  a  thrill  more  keen  for 
the  pointing  sign,  "Metz,  47  kilometres,"  which  reminded 
us  that  less  than  thirty  miles  separated  us  from  the  great 
German  stronghold,  yet — "on  ne  passera  pas  I"  And  the 
deepest  thrill  of  all  at  the  words  of  our  guide : "  Voila  la 
porte  de  Verdun  !  Nous  y  sommes." 

Turning  off  the  road,  we  stopped  our  car  and  the  little 
Ford  to  look  up  and  worship.  There  it  rose  before  us, 
ancient  pile  of  gray  stones,  altar  of  history  and  triumph, 
Verodunum  of  Rome,  city  of  warlike,  almost  royal  bishops 
and  rich  burghers:  town  of  treaties,  sacked  by  Barbarians; 
owned  and  given  up  by  Germans;  seized  by  Prussians 
when  the  French  had  spiked  their  guns  in  1870;  and  now 
forever  a  monument  to  the  immortal  manhood  of  France ! 

Perhaps  it  was  the  mist  in  my  eyes,  but  at  first  sight 
Verdun  did  not  look  ruined,  as  I  saw  it  towering  up  to 
its  citadel  in  massive  strength  and  stern  dignity.  The  old 
houses  on  the  slope  stood  shoulder  to  shoulder  and  back 
to  back,  like  massed  men  fighting  their  last  stand.  It 
was  only  when  we  had  started  on  again,  and  passing 
through  the  gate  had  slipped  into  the  sorrowful  intimacy 
of  the  streets,  that  Verdun  let  us  see  her  glorious  rags  and 
scars. 

You  would  think  that  one  devastated  town  would  be 
much  like  another  to  look  at  save  for  size.  But  no !  I  am 


172  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

learning  that  each  has  some  arresting  claim  of  its  own  to 
sacred  remembrance.  Nancy  has  had  big  buildings 
knocked  down  like  card  houses  by  occasional  bombard 
ment  of  great  guns.  Sermaize,  Gerbeviller,  Vitrimont 
and  twenty  other  places  we  have  seen  were  thoroughly 
looted  by  the  Germans  and  then  burned,  street  by  street. 
But  Verdun  has  been  bombarded  every  day  for  weeks  and 
months  and  years.  The  town  is  a  royal  skeleton,  erect 
and  on  its  feet,  its  jewelled  sceptre  damaged,  but  still 
grasped  in  a  fleshless  hand.  The  Germans  have  never 
got  near  enough  to  steal ! 

"You  see,"  said  the  smart  young  captain  who  had 
come  out  to  meet  us  at  the  gate  and  take  us  to  the  citadel, 
"you  see,  nothing  has  been  touched  in  these  houses  since 
the  owners  had  to  go.  When  they  return  from  their 
places  of  refuge  far  away,  they  will  find  everything  as 
they  left  it — that  is,  as  the  Boche  guns  have  left  it." 

Only  too  easy  was  it  to  see!  In  some  of  the  streets 
whole  rows  of  houses  had  had  their  fronts  torn  off.  The 
rooms  within  were  like  stage-settings  for  some  tragic  play. 
Sheets  and  blankets  trailed  from  beds  where  sleepers  had 
waked  in  fright.  Doors  of  wardrobes  gaped  to  show 
dresses  dangling  forlornly,  like  Bluebeard's  murdered 
brides.  Dinner-tables  were  set  out  for  meals  never  to  be 
finished,  save  by  rats.  Family  portraits  of  comfortable 
old  faces  smiling  under  broken  glass  hung  awry  on  pink 
or  blue  papered  walls.  Half -made  shirts  and  petticoats 
were  still  caught  by  the  needle  in  broken  sewing-machines. 
Dropped  books  and  baskets  of  knitting  lay  on  bright 
carpets  snowed  under  by  fallen  plaster.  Vases  of  dead 
flowers  stood  on  mantelpieces,  ghostly  stems  and  shrivelled 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  175 

brown  leaves  reflected  in  gilt-framed  mirrors.  I  could 
hardly  bear  to  look!  It  was  like  being  shown  by  a  hard 
hearted  surgeon  the  beating  of  a  brain  through  the  sawed 
hole  in  a  man's  skull.  If  one  could  have  crawled  through 
the  crust  of  lava  at  Pompeii,  a  year  after  the  eruption, 
one  might  have  felt  somewhat  as  at  Verdun  now ! 

On  a  broken  terrace,  once  a  beloved  evening  promenade, 
our  two  cars  paused.  We  got  out  and  gazed  down,  down 
over  the  River  Meuse,  from  a  high  vantage-point  where 
a  few  months  ago,  we  should  have  been  blown  to  bits, 
in  five  minutes.  Our  two  officers  pointed  out  in  the 
misty  autumn  landscape  spots  where  some  of  the  fiercest 
and  most  famous  fights  had  been.  How  the  names  they 
rattled  off  brought  back  anxious  nights  and  mornings 
when  our  first  and  only  thoughts  had  been  the  com- 
muniques  !  "Desperate  battle  on  the  Meuse."  "Splen 
did  stand  at  Douaumont."  "New  attack  on  Mort- 
homme."  But  nothingwe  saw  helped  out  our  imaginings. 
There  was  just  a  vast  stretch  of  desolation  where  vine- 
lands  once  had  poured  their  perfume  to  the  sun.  The 
forts  protecting  Verdun  were  as  invisible  as  fairyland,  I 
said.  "As  invisible  as  hell!"  one  of  our  guides  amended 
And  then  to  me,  in  a  low  voice  unheard  by  pale  and  trem 
bling  Mother  Beckett,  he  added,  "If  Nature  did  not  work 
to  make  ugly  things  invisible,  we  could  not  let  you  come 
here,  Mademoiselle.  See  how  high  the  grass  has  grown  in 
the  plain  down  there!  In  summer  it  is  full  of  poppies,  red 
as  the  blood  that  feeds  their  roots.  And  it  is  only  the 
grasses  and  the  poppies  that  hide  the  bones  of  men  we've 
never  yet  put  underground.  Nature  has  been  one  of  our 
chief  sextons,  here  at  Verdun.  I  wish  you  could  have 


174  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

seen  the  poppies  a  few  months  ago,  mixed  with  blue 
marguerites  and  cornflowers — that  we  call  'bluets.'  We 
used  to  say  that  our  dead  were  lying  in  state  under  the 
tricolour  flag  of  France.  But  I  have  made  you  sad,  Made 
moiselle.  Je  regrette  I  We  must  take  you  quickly  to  the 
citadel.  Our  general  will  not  let  you  be  sad  there. " 

We  turned  from  the  view  over  the  Meuse  and  walked 
away  in  silence.  I  thought  I  had  never  heard  so  loud, 
so  thunderously  echoing,  a  silence  in  my  life. 

Oh,  no,  it  was  not  sad  in  the  citadel!  It  was,  on  the 
contrary,  very  gay,  of  a  gaiety  so  gallant  and  so  pathetic 
that  it  brought  a  lump  to  the  throat  when  there  should 
have  been  a  laugh  on  the  lips.  But  the  lump  had  to  be 
swallowed,  or  our  hosts'  feelings  would  be  hurt.  They 
didn't  want  watery -eyed,  full-throated  guests  at  a  luncheon 
worthy  of  bright  smiles  and  keen  appetites ! 

The  first  thing  that  happened  to  Mother  Beckett  and 
me  in  the  famous  fortress  was  to  be  shown  into  a  room 
decorated  as  a  ladies'  boudoir.  All  had  been  done,  we 
were  told  almost  timidly,  in  our  honour,  even  the  frescoes 
on  the  walls,  painted  in  record  time  by  a  young  lieuten 
ant,  who  was  an  artist;  and  the  officers  hoped  that  they  had 
forgotten  nothing  we  might  need.  We  could  both  have 
cried,  if  we  hadn't  feared  to  spoil  our  eyes  and  redden 
our  noses!  But  even  if  we'd  not  been  strong  enough  to 
stifle  our  tears,  there  was  everything  at  hand  to  repair 
their  ravages.  And  all  this  in  a  place  where  the  Revolution 
had  sent  fourteen  lovely  ladies  to  the  guillotine  for  servilely 
begging  the  King  of  Prussia  to  spare  Verdun. 

The  lieutenant  who  met  us  at  Bar-le-Duc  had  rushed 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  175 

there  in  advance  of  us,  in  order  to  shop  with  frantic  haste. 
A  long  list  must  have  been  compiled  after  "mature 
deliberation" — as  they  say  in  courts-martial — otherwise 
any  normal  young  man  would  have  missed  out  something. 
In  the  tiny,  subterranean  room  (not  much  larger  than  a 
cell)  a  stick  of  incense  burned.  The  cot-bed  of  some 
hospitable  captain  or  major  disguised  itself  as  a  couch, 
under  a  brand-new  silk  table-cover  with  the  price-mark 
still  attached,  and  several  small  sofa  cushions,  also  ticketed. 
A  deal  table  had  been  painted  green  and  spread  with  a 
lace-edged  tea-cloth,  on  which  were  proudly  displayed  a 
galaxy  of  fittings  from  a  dressing-bag,  the  best,  no  doubt, 
that  poor  bombarded  Bar-le-Duc  could  produce  in  war 
time.  There  were  ivory -backed  hair  and  clothes  brushes; 
a  comb;  bottles  filled  with  white  face-wash  and  perfume; 
a  manicure-set,  with  pink  salve  and  nail-powder;  a  tray 
decked  out  with  every  size  of  hairpin;  a  cushion  bristling 
with  pins  of  many-coloured  heads;  boxes  of  rouge,  a  hare's- 
foot  to  put  it  on  with;  face-powder  in  several  tints;  swan's- 
down  puffs;  black  pencils  for  the  eyebrows  and  blue  for 
the  eyelids;  sweet-smelling  soap — a  dazzling  and  heavily 
fragrant  collection. 

"Oh,  my  dear,  what  did  they  think  of  us?"  gasped 
Mother  Beckett.  "  What  a  shame  the  poor  lambs  should 
have  wasted  all  their  money  and  trouble ! " 

"It  mustn't  be  wasted!"  said  I.  "Think  how  dis 
appointed  they'd  be  if  they  came  in  here  afterward  and 
found  we  hadn't  touched  a  thing ! " 

"But "  she  protested. 

"You  wouldn't  hurt  the  feelings  of  the  saviours  of 
France?  I'm  going  to  make  us  both  up!  And  there's 


176  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

no  time  to  waste.  They've  given  us  fifteen  minutes'  grace 
before  lunch.  For  the  honour  of  womanhood  we  mustn't 
be  late!" 

I  sat  her  down  in  the  only  chair.  I  dusted  her  pure 
little  face  with  pearl-powder  and  the  faintest  soupgon 
of  rouge.  I  rubbed  on  her  sweet  lips  just  the  suspicion 
of  pink,  liked  by  an  elderly  grande  dame  frangaise,  who 
has  not  yet  "abdicated."  I  then  made  myself  up  more 
seriously:  a  blue  shadow  on  the  lids,  a  raven  touch  on 
the  lashes;  a  flick  of  the  hare's-foot  under  my  eyes  and  on 
my  ear-tips:  an  extra  coat  of  pink  and  a  brilliant  (most 
injurious!)  varnish  on  the  nails.  Then,  with  a  dash  of 
Rose  AmbrSe  for  my  companion's  blouse  and  Nulls  d'Orient 
for  mine,  we  sallied  forth  scented  like  a  harem,  to  do 
honour  to  our  hosts. 

Luncheon  was  in  a  vast  cavern  of  a  vaulted  banqueting- 
hall,  in  the  deepest  heart  of  that  citadel,  where  for  eleven 
years  Napoleon  kept  his  weary  English  prisoners.  Electric 
lights  showed  us  a  table  adorned  with  fresh  flowers  (where 
they'd  come  from  was  a  miracle,  but  soon  we  were  to  see 
other  miracles  still  more  miraculous),  French,  British, 
and  American  flags,  and  pyramids  of  fruit.  The  Rose 
Anibree  and  Nulls  duOrient  filled  the  whole  vast  salle, 
and  pleased  the  officers,  I  was  sure.  They  bowed  and 
smiled  and  paid  us  compliments,  their  many  medals 
glittered  in  the  light,  and  their  uniforms  were  resplendent 
against  the  cold  background  of  the  walls.  I  wished  that, 
instead  of  one  girl,  I  had  been  a  dozen!  But  I  did  my 
best  and  so  did  Mother  Beckett,  who  brightened  into  a 
charming  second  youth,  the  youth  of  a  happy  mother 
surrounded  by  a  band  of  sons. 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  177 

\ 

The  lumps  that  had  been  in  our  throats  had  to  be  choked 
sternly  down,  for  not  to  do  justice  to  that  meal  would  be 
worse  than  leaving  the  rouge  and  powder  boxes  unopened ! 
The  menu  need  not  have  put  a  palace  to  shame.  In  the 
citadel  of  Verdun  it  seemed  as  if  it  must  have  been  evolved 
by  rubbing  Aladdin's  lamp,  and  I  said  so  as  I  read  it  over: 

Huitres  d'Ostende 
Bisque  d'Ecrevisses 
Sanglier  roti 

Puree  de  Pommes  de  Terre 
Soufflee  de  Chocolat 

Fruits 

Bonbons 

"Oh,  we've  never  been  hungry  at  Verdun,  even  when 
things  were  at  their  liveliest,"  said  the  officer  sitting  next 
to  me.  "Providence  provided  for  us  in  a  strange  way. 
I  will  tell  you  how.  Before  the  civil  population  went 
away,  or  expected  to  go,  there  was  talk  of  a  long  siege. 
The  shopkeepers  thought  they  would  be  intelligent  and 
sent  to  Paris  for  all  sorts  of  food.  Oh,  not  only  the 
grocers  and  butchers!  Everyone.  You  would  have 
laughed  to  see  the  jewellers  showing  hams  in  their  windows 
instead  of  diamonds  and  pearls  and  gold  purses,  and  the 
piles  of  preserved  meat  and  fruit  tins  at  the  perfumers! 
The  confectioners  ordered  stores  of  sugar  and  the  wine 
merchants  restocked  their  cellars.  Then  things  began 
to  happen.  Houses  were  bombed,  and  people  hustled  out 
in  a  hurry.  You  have  seen  some  of  those  houses!  The 
place  was  getting  too  hot;  and  the  order  came  for  evacua 
tion.  Not  much  could  be  taken  away,  Transport  was 


178  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

difficult  in  those  days!  All  the  good  food  had  to  be  left 
behind,  and  we  thought  it  would  be  a  pity  to  waste  it. 
Our  chief  bought  the  lot  at  a  reasonable  price — merchants 
were  thankful  to  sell.  So  you  see  we  did  not  need  Alad 
din's  lamp." 

"I  don't  quite  see!"  I  confessed.  "Because,  that's  a 
long  time  ago,  and  these  oysters  of  Ostende " 

"Never  saw  Ostende!"  he  laughed.  "They  are  a 
big  bluff!  We  always  have  them  when" — he  bowed — 
"we  entertain  distinguished  guests.  The  Germans  used 
to  print  in  their  papers  that  we  at  Verdun  could  not 
hold  out  long,  because  we  were  eating  rats.  So  we  took 
to  cutting  a  dash  with  our  menus.  We  do  not  go  into  par 
ticulars  and  say  that  our  oysters  have  kept  themselves 
fresh  in  tins ! " 

"But  the  wild  boar?"  I  persisted.  "Does  one  tin 
-wild  boar?" 

"One  does  not!  One  goes  out  and  shoots  it.  Ma 
foi,  it's  a  good  adventure  when  the  German  guns  are  not 
asleep!  The  fruit?  Ah,  that  is  easy!  It  comes  as  the 
air  we  breathe.  And  for  our  bonbons,  the  famous  sugared 
almonds  of  Verdun  were  not  all  destroyed  when  the  fac 
tory  blew  up. " 

With  this  he  handed  me  a  dish  of  the  delicious  things. 
"The  story  is,"  he  said,  "that  a  certain  Abbess  brought 
the  secret  of  making  these  almonds  to  Verdun.  We  have 
to  thank  Henry  of  Navarre  for  her.  He  had  a  pleasant 
way,  when  he  wished  to  be  rid  of  an  old  love  with  a  com 
pliment,  of  turning  her  into  an  Abbess.  That  time  he 
made  a  lucky  stroke  for  us." 

At  the  end  of  luncheon  we  all  drank  healths,  and  nearly 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  179 

everyone  made  a  speech  except  Mrs.  Beckett.  She  only 
nodded  and  smiled,  looking  so  ideal  a  little  mother  that 
she  must  have  made  even  the  highest  officers  homesick 
for  their  mamans. 

Then  we  were  led  through  a  mysterious  network  of 
narrow  passages  and  vaulted  rooms,  all  lit  with  electric 
lamps,  and  striking  cold  and  cellary.  We  saw  the  big 
hospital,  not  very  busy  just  then,  and  the  clean,  empty 
operating  theatre,  and  gnome-caverns  where  munitions 
were  stored  in  vast,  black  pyramids.  When  there  was 
nothing  left  to  see  in  the  citadel,  our  hosts  asked  if  we 
would  like  to  pay  a  visit  to  the  trenches — old  trenches 
which  had  once  defended  Thiaumont. 

"I  don't  think  my  wife  had  better "  Mr.  Beckett 

began ;  but  the  little  old  lady  cut  him  short.  "Yes,  Father, 
I  just  had  better!  To-day,  being  among  all  these  splendid 
brave  soldiers  has  shown  me  that  I'm  weak — a  spoiled 
child.  I  felt  yesterday  I'd  been  a  coward.  Now  I  know  it ! 
And  I'm  going  to  see  those  trenches." 

I  believe  it  was  partly  the  powder  and  lip  salve  that 
made  her  so  desperate ! 

Her  husband  yielded,  meek  as  a  lamb.  Big  men  like 
Mr.  Beckett  always  do  to  little  women  like  Mrs.  Beckett. 
But  she  bore  it  well.  And  when  at  last  we  bade  good-bye 
to  our  glorious  hosts,  she  said  to  me,  "Molly,  you  tell 
them  in  French,  that  now  I've  met  them  I  understand 
why  the  Germans  could  never  pass ! " 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

A^EOST  any  place  on  earth  would  be  an  anti-climax 
the  day  after  Verdun — but  not  Rheims! 
Just  at  this  moment  (it  mayn't  be  much  more) 
Rheims  is  resting,  like  a  brave  victim  on  the  rack  who  has 
tired  his  torturers  by  an  obstinate  silence.  Only  a  few 
people  are  allowed  to  enter  the  town,  save  those  who  have 
lived  there  all  along,  and  learned  to  think  no  more  of 
German  bombs  than  German  sausages;  and  those  favoured 
few  must  slip  in  and  out  almost  between  breaths.  Any 
instant  the  torturing  may  begin  again,  when  the  Bodies 
have  bombs  to  spare  for  what  they  call  "target  practice"; 
for  think,  how  near  is  Laon! — and  we'd  been  warned 
that,  even  at  the  portals  of  the  town,  we  might  be  turned 
back. 

We  had  still  another  new  French  officer  to  take  us  to 
Rheims.  (I  am  getting  their  faces  a  little  mixed,  like  a 
composite  picture,  but  I  keep  sacredly  all  their  dear 
visiting-cards!)  He  was  a  captain,  with  a  scarred  but 
handsome  face,  and  he  complimented  Mother  Beckett 
and  me  on  our  "courage."  This  made  Father  Beckett 
visibly  regret  that  he  had  brought  us,  though  he  had  been 
assured  that  it  was  a  "safe  time."  However,  his  was  not 
the  kind  of  regret  which  tempts  a  man  to  turn  back:  it  only 
makes  his  upper  lip  look  long. 

I  never  saw  Rheims  in  palmy  days  of  peace.     Now  I 

180 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  181 

wish  I  had  seen  it !  But  there  was  that  lithograph  of  the 
cathedral  by  Gustave  Simonau,  the  great  Belgian  artist, 
hanging  above  your  desk,  in  the  den,  Padre.  I  used  to 
study  it  when  I  should  have  been  studying  my  lessons, 
fascinated  by  the  splendid  fagade,  the  twin  towers,  the 
three  "portals  of  the  Trinity,"  the  rose-window,  the 
gallery  of  kings,  the  angels,  the  saints,  the  gargoyles  and 
all  the  carved  stone  lace-work  which  the  picture  so  won 
derfully  shows. 

On  the  opposite  side  of  the  room  was  Simonau's  Cathe 
dral  of  Chartres,  in  a  dark  frame  to  match,  and  I  remember 
your  saying  that  Chartres  was  considered  by  some  critics 
even  finer  than  Rheims.  The  Cathedral  of  Chartres 
seemed  a  romantic  monument  of  history  to  me,  because 
it  was  built  as  a  shrine  for  the  "tunic  of  the  Virgin";  but 
the  Gothic  Notre-Dame  of  Rheims  appealed  to  my — per 
haps  prophetic — soul.  Maybe  I  had  a  latent  presenti 
ment  of  how  I  should  see  the  real  cathedral,  as  la  grande 
blessee  of  the  greatest  war  of  the  world. 

Anyhow,  I  always  took  a  deep  interest  in  Rheims  from 
the  day  I  first  gaped,  an  open-mouthed  child,  at  that 
beautiful  drawing,  and  I  was  glad  I'd  forgotten  none  of 
its  details,  as  we  motored  toward  the  martyr  town. 
Usually  there's  Brian,  who  can  tell  the  dear  Becketts  all 
they  don't  know  and  want  to  know,  but  this  time  they'd 
only  me  to  depend  upon.  And  when  I  think  what  a  cruel 
fraud  I  am  at  heart,  there's  some  consolation  in  serving 
them,  even  in  small  ways. 

There's  a  wide  plain  that  knows  desolately  what  Ger 
man  bombardment  means:  there  are  gentle  hills  rising 
out  of  it,  south  and  west  (will  grapes  ever  be  sweet  on  those 


182  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

sad  hillsides  again?)  and  there's  the  little  river  Vesle  that 
runs  into  the  Aisne.  There's  the  Canal  of  the  Aisne  and 
the  Marne,  too — oh,  many  wide  waters  and  little  streams, 
to  breathe  out  mist,  for  Rheims  is  on  the  pleasant  Ile-de- 
France.  There  was  so  much  mist  this  autumn  day  that 
it  hid  from  our  eyes  for  a  long  time  the  tall  form  of  the 
Cathedral  which  should  dominate  the  plain  for  many 
miles;  a  thick,  white  mist  like  the  sheet  with  wrhich  a 
sculptor  veils  his  masterpiece  until  it's  ready  to  face  the 
world.  As  we  drove  on,  and  still  saw  no  looming  bulk, 
frozen  fear  pinched  my  heart,  like  horrid,  ice-cold  fingers. 
What  if  there 'd  been  some  new  bombardment  we  hadn't 
had  time  to  hear  of,  and  the  Cathedral  were  gone  ? 

But  I  didn't  speak  my  fear.  I  tried  to  cover  it  up  by 
chattering  about  Rheims.  Goodness  knows  there's  a  lot  to 
chatter  about!  All  that  wonderful  history,  since  Clovis 
was  baptized  by  Saint  Remi;  and  Charlemagne  crowned, 
and  Charles  the  VII,  with  Jeanne  d'Arc  looking  on  in 
bright  armour,  and  various  Capets,  and  enough  other 
kings  to  name  Notre-Dame  of  Rheims  the  "Cathedral  of 
Coronations."  I  remembered  something  about  the  Gate 
of  Mars,  too — the  oldest  thing  of  all — which  the  Remi 
people  put  up  in  praise  of  Augustus  Caesar  when  Agrippa 
brought  his  great  new  roads  close  to  their  capital.  I  think 
it  had  been  called  Durocoroturum  up  to  that  tune — or 
some  equally  awful  name,  which  you  remember  only 
because  you  expect  to  forget!  I  hardly  dared  tell  the 
Becketts  about  the  celebrated  archiepiscopal  palace 
where  the  kings  used  to  be  entertained  by  the  archbishops 
(successors  of  Saint  Remi)  while  the  coronation  ceremo 
nies  were  going  on :  and  the  Salle  du  Tau  with  its  wonder- 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  183 

f  J  hangings,  its  velvet-cushioned  stone  seats  and  carved, 
upright  furniture,  where  the  royal  guests — in  robes  stiff 
with  jewelled  embroidery — had  their  banquets  from  plates 
of  solid  silver  and  gold.  It  seemed  cruel  to  speak  of 
splendours  vanished  forever,  vanished  like  the  holy  oil  of 
the  sacred  phial  brought  from  heaven  by  a  dove  for  the 
baptism  of  Clovis,  and  kept  for  the  anointing  of  all  those 
dead  kings! 

But  it  was  just  the  time  and  place  to  talk  about  Attila — 
Attila  the  First,  I  mean,  of  whom,  as  I  told  you,  I  firmly 
believe  the  present  "incumbent"  to  be  the  reincarnation. 
As  Attila  I.  thought  fit  to  putRheims  to  the  sword,  Atilla  II. 
is  naturally  impelled  by  the  "spiral"  to  do  his  best  from  a 
distance,  by  destroying  the  Cathedral  which  wasn't  begun 
in  his  predecessor's  day.  But  what  does  he  think,  I  won 
der,  about  the  prophecy?  That  in  Rheims — scene  of 
the  first  German  defeat  on  the  soil  of  Gaul — Germany's 
last  defeat  will  be  celebrated,  with  great  rejoicing  in  the 
Cathedral  she  has  tried  to  ruin? 

Those  words,  "tried  to  ruin," I  uttered  rather  feebly, 
holding  forth  to  the  Becketts,  because  we  had  passed  a 
long  dark  line  of  trees  before  which — we'd  been  told — we 
ought  to  see  the  Cathedral  rise  triumphant  against  an 
empty  background  of  sky.  And  still  there  was  nothing ! 

Of  course,  I  told  myself,,  it  must  be  the  mist.  But 
could  mist  be  thick  enough  entirely  to  hide  a  great  moun 
tain  of  a  cathedral  from  eyes  drawing  nearer  every  min 
ute?  Then,  suddenly,  my  question  was  answered  by  the 
mist  itself.  I  must  have  hypnotized  it!  A  light  wind, 
which  we  had  thought  was  made  by  the  motor,  cut  like 
the  shears  of  Lachesis  through  the  woolly  white  web.  A 


184  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

gash  of  blue  appeared  and  in  the  midst,  floating  as  if  it 
had  died  and  gone  to  heaven,  the  Cathedral. 

Yes,  * '  died  and  gone  to  heaven ! ' '  That  is  just  what  has 
happened  to  Notre-Dame  of  Rheims.  The  body  has  been 
martyred,  but  the  soul  is  left  alive — beautiful,  brave  soul 
of  the  old  stones  of  France ! 

"Oh!"  went  up  from  three  voices  in  the  motor-car.  I 
think  even  our  one-legged  soldier-chauffeur  emitted  a 
grunt  of  joy;  and  Mother  Beckett  clasped  her  hands  on 
her  little  thin  breast,  as  if  she  were  praying,  such  a  wonder 
ful  sight  it  was,  with  the  golden  coronation  of  the  noon= 
day  sun  on  the  towers.  Our  officer-guide,  in  his  car 
ahead,  looked  back  as  if  to  say,  "I  told  you  so!  They 
can't  kill  France,  and  Rheims  is  the  very  spirit  and  youth 
of  France." 

Not  one  of  us  spoke  another  word  until  we  drove  into 
the  town,  and  began  exclaiming  with  horror  and  rage  at 
what  Attila  II  has  done  to  the  streets. 

The  mist  had  fallen  again,  not  white  in  the  town,  but  a 
pale,  sad  gray,  like  a  mantle  of  half -mourning.  It  hung 
over  the  spacious  avenues  and  the  once  fine,  now  desolate, 
streets,  which  had  been  the  pride  of  Rheims;  it  slipped 
serpent-like  through  what  remained  of  old  arcades:  it 
draped  the  ancient  Gate  of  Mars  in  the  Place  de  la  Repub- 
lique  as  if  to  hide  the  cruel  scars  of  the  bombardment;  it 
lay  like  soiled  snow  on  the  mountain  of  tumbled  stone 
which  had  been  the  Rue  St.  Jacques;  it  curtained  the 
"show  street"  of  Rheims,  the  Rue  de  la  Grue,  almost  as 
old  as  the  Cathedral  itself,  which  a  Sieur  de  Coucy  began 
in  1212 ;  trickling  gray  as  glacier  waters  over  the  fallen  walls 
which  artists  had  loved.  It  marbled  with  pale  streaks  the 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  185 

burned,  black  corpse  of  the  once  famous  Maison  des 
Laines;  it  clouded  the  marvellous  old  church  of  St.  Remi, 
and  when  we  came  to  the  Cathedral — kept  for  the  climax 
—it  floated  past  the  wounded  statues  on  the  great  western 
f agade  like  an  army  of  spirits — spirits  of  all  those  watching 
saints  whom  the  statues  honoured. 

The  crowns  of  the  broken  towers  we  could  not  see,  but 
at  that  height  the  mist  was  gilded  by  the  sun  which  sifted 
through  so  that  each  tower  seemed  to  have  its  own  faint 
golden  halo. 

"This  effect  comes  <5ften  on  these  foggy  autumn  days, 
when  the  sun  is  high,  about  noontime,"  said  our  guide. 
"It's  rather  wonderful,  isn't  it?  \Ve  have  a  priest-soldier 
invalided  here  now,  who  used  to  be  of  the  service  in  the 
Cathedral,  before  he  volunteered  to  fight.  He  has  written 
some  verses,  which  it  seems  came  to  him  in  a  dream  one 
night.  Whether  the  world  would  think  them  fine  I  do  not 
know,  but  at  Rheims  we  like  them.  The  idea  is  that 
Jeanne  d'Arc  has  mobilized  the  souls  of  the  saints  who 
protect  Rheims,  to  bless  and  console  the  Cathedral,  which 
they  were  not  permitted  to  save  from  outward  ruin.  It  is 
she  who  gilds  the  mist  on  the  towers  with  a  prophecy  of 
hope.  As  for  the  mist  itself,  according  to  the  poet,  it  is 
no  common  fog.  It  is  but  the  cloak  worn  by  this 
army  of  saints  to  visit  their  cathedral,  and  bathe  its 
wounds  with  their  cool  white  hands,  so  that  at  last, 
when  peace  dawns,  there  shall  be  a  spiritual  beauty 
found  in  the  old  marred  stones — a  beauty  they  never  had 
in  their  prime." 

"I  should  like  to  see  that  soldier-priest!"  said  Father 
Beckett,  when  I  had  translated  for  him  the  officer's  de- 


186  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

scription  of  the  poem.  "Couldn't  we  meet  him?  What's 
his  name?" 

I  passed  on  the  questions  to  our  captain  of  the  scarred 
face.  "The  man's  name  is  St.  Pol,"he  told  us.  "You  can 
see  from  that  he  comes  of  an  old  family.  If  it  had  been 
this  day  last  week  you  could  have  met  him.  He  would 
have  been  pleased.  But — since  then — alas!  Mademoi 
selle,  it  is  impossible  that  he  should  be  seen.  It  would  be 
too  sad  for  you  and  your  friends.  ' 

"He  has  been  wounded  in  some  bombardment?"  I  ex 
claimed. 

"Not  wounded — no.  We  don't  think  much  of  wounds. 
What  has  happened  is  sadder  than  wounds.  Some  day 
the  man  may  recover.  We  hope  so.  But  at  present  he — 
is  out  of  everything,  dead  in  life. " 

"  What  happened?  "  I  gasped. 

"Oh,  it  is  quite  a  history!"  said  the  Captain.  "But  it 
begins  a  long  time  ago,  when  the  Germans  came  to  Rheims 
in  1914.  Perhaps  it  would  fatigue  you?  Besides,  you 
have  to  translate,  which  takes  double  the  time.  I  might 
write  out  the  story  and  send  it,  Mademoiselle,  if  you  like. 
You  and  your  friends  are  not  as  safe  here  as  in  your  own 
houses,  I  do  not  disguise  that  from  you!  The  Germans 
have  let  us  rest  these  last  few  days.  Yet  who  can  tell 
when  they  may  choose  to  wake  us  up  with  a  bomb  or  two?  " 

"I  don't  think  we're  afraid,"  I  said,  and  consulted  the 
Becketts.  The  little  old  lady  answered  for  both.  She 
was  stoutly  sure  they  were  not  afraid!  "We  shouldn't 
deserve  to  be  Jim's  parents  if  we  were — of  a  thing  like 
that  !  You  tell  the  Captain,  Molly,  we're  getting  used  to 
bombs,  and  we  want  the  story  right  here,  on  the  spot ! " 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  187 

*'  C'est  ires  chicy  qa  I "  remarked  the  Captain,  eyeing  the 
mite  of  a  woman.  He  stood  for  a  minute,  his  scarred  face 
pale  in  the  mist,  his  eyes  fixed  thoughtfully  on  a  headless 
stone  king.  Then  he  began  his  story  of  the  soldier-priest. 

Monsieur  le  Cur6  de  St.  Pol  was  very  young  when  the 
war  began — almost  as  young  as  a  cur 6  can  be.  He  did  not 
think,  at  first,  to  become  a  soldier,  for  he  hated  war.  But, 
indeed,  in  those  early  days  he  had  no  time  to  think  at  all. 
He  only  worked — worked,  to  help  care  for  the  wounded 
who  were  pouring  into  Rheims,  toward  the  last  of  August, 
1914.  Many  were  brought  into  the  Cathedral,  where  they 
lay  on  the  floor,  on  beds  of  straw.  The  Cure's  duty  was 
among  these.  He  had  relations  in  Rheims — a  family  of 
cousins  of  the  same  name  as  his.  They  lived  in  a  beautiful 
old  house,  one  of  the  best  in  Rheims,  with  an  ancient  chapel 
in  the  garden.  There  was  an  invalid  father,  whose  wife 
devoted  her  life  to  him,  and  a  daughter — a  very  beautiful 
young  girl  just  home  from  a  convent-school  the  spring 
before  the  war  broke  out.  There  was  a  son,  too — but 
naturally,  he  was  away  fighting. 

This  young  girl,  Liane  de  St.  Pol,  was  one  of  many  in 
Rheims  who  volunteered  to  help  nurse  the  wounded.  All 
girls  brought  up  in  convents  have  some  skill  in  nursing, 
you  know! 

While  she  and  the  Cure  were  at  work  in  the  Cathedral, 
among  the  wounded  men  who  came  in  were  her  own 
brother,  a  lieutenant,  and  his  best  friend,  a  captain  of  his 
regiment.  Both  were  badly  hurt — the  St.  Pol  boy  worse 
than  his  friend.  Yet  even  for  him  there  was  hope — if  he 
could  have  had  the  best  of  care — if  he  could  have  been 
taken  home  and  lovingly  nursed  there.  That  was  not 


188  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

possible.  The  surgeons  had  no  time  for  house-to-house 
visits.  He  was  operated  on  in  the  Cathedral,  and  as  he  lay 
between  life  and  death,  news  came  that  the  Germans  were 
close  to  Rheims. 

•  In  haste  the  wounded  were  sent  to  Epernay — to  save 
them  from  being  made  prisoners.  But  some  could  not 
go :  Louis  de  St.  Pol  and  his  friend  Captain  Jean  de  Visgnes. 
De  Visgnes  might  have  been  hidden  in  the  St.  Pol  house 
but  he  would  not  leave  the  boy,  who  could  not  be  moved  so 
far.  The  Cure  vowed  to  hide  both,  and  he  did  hide  them 
in  a  chapel  of  the  Cathedral  itself.  On  September  3,  at 
evening,  the  first  Germans  rode  into  the  town  and  took  up 
their  quarters  in  the  Municipal  Palace,  where  they  forced 
the  Mayor,  a  very  old  man,  to  live  with  them.  It  was 
a  changed  Rheims  since  the  day  before.  The  troops  of 
the  garrison  had  gone  in  the  direction  of  Epernay,  since 
there  was  no  hope  of  defence.  Many  rich  people  had 
fled,  taking  what  they  could  carry  in  automobiles  or  cabs. 
The  poor  feared  a  siege — or  worse:  they  knew  not  what. 
The  St.  Pol  family  received  into  their  house  a  number  of 
women  whose  husbands  were  at  the  Front,  and  their 
babies.  No  one  ventured  out  who  could  stay  indoors. 
The  city  filled  up  with  German  soldiers,  with  the  Kaiser's 
son,  Prince  August  Wilhelm,  at  their  head.  They,  too,  had 
wounded.  The  Cathedral  was  put  to  use  for  them,  and 
the  Cure  cared  for  the  Bodies  as  he  had  cared  for  the 
French.  This  gave  him  a  chance,  at  night,  to  nurse  his 
two  friends.  So  dragged  on  seven  days,  which  seemed 
seven  years;  and  then  rumours  drifted  in  of  a  great 
German  retreat,  a  mysterious  failure  in  the  midst  of  seem 
ing  victory.  The  Battle  of  the  Marne  was  making 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  189 

itself  felt.  In  rage  and  bewilderment  the  Germans 
poured  out  of  Rheims,  leaving  only  their  wounded  behind. 
The  townspeople  praised  God,  and  thought  their  trial  was 
over.  But  it  was  only  just  begun !  On  the  16th  the  bom 
bardment  opened.  The  Germans  knew  that  their  woun 
ded  still  lay  in  the  Cathedral,  but  they  did  not  seem  to 
care  for  men  out  of  the  fighting  line.  A  rain  of  bombs  fell 
in  the  town — one  of  the  first  wrecked  the  Red  Cross  ambu 
lance — and  many  struck  the  Cathedral.  Then  came  the 
night  when  the  straw  bedding  blazed,  and  fire  poured 
through  the  long  naves,  rising  to  the  roof. 

The  Cure  told  afterward  how  wonderful  the  sight  was 
with  the  jewelled  windows  lighting  up  for  the  last  time* 
before  the  old  glass  burst  with  the  shrill  tinkle  of  a  million 
crystal  bells.  He  and  Jean  de  Visgnes  carried  Louis  de 
St.  Pol  out  into  the  street,  but  the  boy  died  before  they 
reached  his  father's  house,  and  De  Visgnes  had  a  dangerous 
relapse.  It  was  on  this  night  that  the  Cure  made  up  his 
mind  to  volunteer,  and  soon  he  was  at  the  Front.  Nearly 
three  years  passed  before  he  and  De  Visgnes  met  again,  both 
en  permission,  travelling  back  to  Rheims  to  pass  their 
"perm. "  Jean  was  now  engaged  to  Liane  de  St.  Pol  who, 
with  her  parents,  had  remained  in  the  bombarded  town, 
refusing  to  desert  their  poor  protegees.  The  two  planned 
to  marry,  after  the  war;  but  Liane  had  been  struck  by  a 
flying  fragment  of  shell,  and  wounded  in  the  head.  De 
Visgnes  could  bear  the  separation  no  longer.  He  made 
the  girl  promise  to  marry  him  at  once — in  the  chapel  of 
the  old  house,  as  she  was  still  suffering,  and  forbidden  to 
go  out.  His  leave  had  been  granted  for  the  wedding, 
and  the  moment  Liane  was  strong  enough  she  and  the 


190  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

old  people  would  leave  Rheims.  Jean  was  to  take  them 
himself  to  his  own  home  in  Provence.  The  Cure  was  to 
marry  his  cousin  to  the  man  whose  life  he  had  saved. 

Many  children  of  the  poor  whom  Liane  had  helped 
decorated  the  chapel  with  flowers,  and  though  the  wedding- 
day  was  one  of  fierce  bombardment,  no  one  dreamed  of 
putting  off  the  ceremony.  No  fine  shops  for  women's 
dress  were  open  in  Rheims,  but  the  bride  wore  her  mother's 
wedding-gown  and  veil  of  old  lace.  None  save  the  family 
were  asked  to  the  marriage,  because  it  was  dangerous  to 
go  from  house  to  house;  yet  all  Rheims  loved  Liane,  and 
meant  to  wish  happiness  for  bride  and  bridegroom  as  the 
chapel-bells  chimed  for  their  union.  But  the  bells  began 
and  never  finished.  At  the  instant  when  Liane  de  St.  Pol 
and  Jean  de  Visgnes  became  man  and  wife  a  bomb  fell 
on  the  chapel  roof.  The  tiles  collapsed  like  cards,  and 
all  the  bridal  party  was  killed  as  by  a  lightning  stroke. 
Only  the  soldier-priest  was  spared.  Strangely,  he  was  not 
even  touched.  But  horror  had  driven  him  mad.  Since 
then  he  spoke  only  to  rave  of  Liane  and  Jean;  how  beauti 
ful  they  had  looked,  lying  dead  before  the  wrecked  altar. 

"The  doctors  say  it  is  like  a  case  of  shell-shock,"  the 
Captain  finished.  "They  think  he'll  recover.  But  at 
present,  as  I  said — it  is  a  sad  affair.  Sad  for  him — not  for 
those  who  died  together,  suffering  no  pain.  One  of  the 
Cure's  favourite  sayings  used  to  be,  they  tell  me,  'Death 
is  not  an  end,  but  a  beginning.' " 

"You  know  him  well?  "  I  asked. 

**Yes.  I  was  stationed  in  Rheims  before  the  war.  I 
used  to  dance  with  Liane  when  she  came  home  from 
school." 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  191 

"Ah,  if  only  her  family  hadn't  stayed  here  till  too  late !" 
I  cried. 

The  captain  with  the  scarred  face  shrugged  his  shoul 
ders.  "Destiny!"  he  said.  "Besides,  the  best  people 
do  not  run  away  easily  from  the  homes  they  love.  Per 
haps  they  have  the  feeling  that,  in  a  home  which  has  al 
ways  meant  peace,  nothing  terrible  can  happen.  Yet 
there's  more  in  it  than  that — something  more  subtle 
which  keeps  them  in  the  place  where  they  have  always 
lived:  something,  I  think,  that  binds  the  spirits  of  us 
Frenchmen  and  women  to  the  spirit  of  their  own  hearths — 
their  own  soil.  Haven't  you  found  that  already,  in  other 
places  you  have  visited  in  this  journey  of  yours?  " 

"Yes,"  I  answered,  thinking  of  the  old  people  I  had  seen 
at  Vitrimont  living  in  the  granaries  of  their  ruined  houses, 
and  strangely,  unbelievably  happy  because  they  were  "at 
home."  "Yes,  we  have  seen  that  in  little  villages  of 
Lorraine." 

"Then  how  much  more  at  Rheims,  under  the  shadow  of 
Notre-Dame!"  The  scarred  captain  still  gazed  at  the 
headless  king ,  and  faintly  smiled. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

OF  COURSE  nothing  did  happen  in  Paris  to  break 
up  the  party.  I  might  have  known  that  nothing 
would.  Nothing  happened  at  all,  except  that  I 
received  a  letter  from  Doctor  Herter  with  the  promised 
introduction  to  an  oculist  just  now  at  the  Front,  and  that 
I  realized,  after  three  days'  absence,  how  Brian  is  improv 
ing.  He  has  less  the  air  of  a  beautiful  soul,  whose  incar 
nation  in  a  body  is  a  mere  accident,  and  more  the  look  of 
a  happy,  handsome  young  man,  with  a  certain  spiritual 
radiance  which  makes  him  remarkable  and  somehow 
"disturbing,"  as  the  French  say.  If  anything  could 
stop  the  rats  gnawing  my  conscience,  it  would  be  this 
blessed  change.  Brian  is  getting  back  health  and  strength. 
When  I  think  what  a  short  time  ago  it  is  that  his  life 
hung  in  the  balance,  this  seems  a  miracle.  I'm  afraid 
I  am  glad — glad  that  I  did  the  thing  which  has  given  him 
his  chance.  Besides,  I  love  the  Becketts.  So  does  Brian. 
And  they  love  us.  It's  difficult  to  remember  that  I've 
stolen  their  love.  Surely,  they're  happier  with  us  than 
they  could  have  been  without  us?  Brian's  scheme  for 
their  visits  to  the  liberated  towns  is  doing  good  to  them 
and  to  hundreds — even  thousands — of  people  whom  they 
Intend  to  help. 

All  this  is  sophistry,  no  doubt,  but  oh,  it's  beguiling 
sophistry !     It's  so  perfectly  disguised  that  I  seldom  recog- 

192 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  193 

nize  it  except  at  night  when  I  lie  awake,  and  it  sits  on  my 
bed,  without  its  becoming  mask. 

Being  the  Becketts'  adviser-in-chief,  and  having  his 
lungs  full  of  ozone  every  day  should  be  enough  to  account 
for  Brian's  improvement.  Yet — well,  I  can't  help  think 
ing  that  he  takes  a  lot  more  trouble  than  he  need  for 
Dierdre  OTarrell.  Oh,  not  that  he's  in  love  !  Such  an 
idea  is  ridiculous,  but  he's  interested  and  sorry  for  the 
girl,  because  she  goes  about  with  a  chip  on  her  shoulder, 
defying  the  world  to  knock  it  off.  He  won't  admit  that 
it's  the  fault  of  her  outlook  on  the  world,  and  that  the 
poor  old  world  isn't  to  blame  at  all. 

What  if  he  knew  the  truth  about  that  brother  and  sister? 
Naturally  I  can't  tell  him,  of  all  people  on  earth,  and 
they  take  advantage  of  my  handicap.  They've  used 
their  time  well,  in  my  absence,  when  they  had  Brian  to 
themselves.  He  had  his  doubts  of  Julian,  but  the  creature 
has  sung  himself  into  my  blind  brother's  heart.  From 
what  I  hear,  the  three  have  spent  most  of  their  time  at  the 
piano  in  the  private  salon  which  the  Becketts  invited  the 
O'Farrells  to  engage. 

Now,  as  I  write,  we  are  making  our  headquarters  in 
Compiegne,  sleeping  there,  and  sightseeing  by  day  on 
what  they  call  the  "Noyon  Front." 

After  Rheims  and  before  Noyon  we  stopped  three  days  in 
Paris  instead  of  one,  as  we'd  planned,  for  Mother  Beckett 
was  tired.  She  wouldn't  confess  it,  but  "  Father  "  thought 
she  looked  pale.  Strange  if  she  had  not,  after  such  ex 
periences  and  emotions!  Sometimes,  when  I  study  the 
delicate  old  face,  with  blue  hollows  under  kind,  sweet 
eyes,  I  ask  myself:  "Will  she  be  able  to  get  through  the 


194  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

task  she's  set  herself?"  But  she  is  so  quietly  brave,  not 
only  in  fatigue,  but  in  danger,  that  I  answer  my  own. 
question:  "Yes,  she  will  do  it  somehow,  on  the  reserve 
force  that  kept  her  up  when  Jim  died." 

The  road  from  Paris,  past  Senlis,  to  Compiegne,  was 
even  more  thrilling  than  the  road  to  Nancy  and  beyond, 
for  this  was  the  way  the  Germans  took  in  September,  1914, 
when  they  thought  the  capital  was  theirs  to  have  and 
hold:  "la  route  de  V Allemagne"  it  used  to  be  called,  but 
never  will  French  lips  give  it  that  name  again. 

Just  at  first,  running  out  of  the  city  in  early  morning, 
things  looked  much  the  same  as  when  starting  for  Nancy : 
the  unnatural  quiet  of  streets  once  crammed  with  busy 
traffic  for  feeding  gay  Paris;  military  motors  of  all  sorts 
and  sizes,  instead  of  milk  wagons  and  cartloads  of  colour 
ful  fruits;  women  working  instead  of  men;  children  on  theii 
way  to  school,  sedately  talking  of  "papa  au  Front,"  instead 
of  playing  games.  But  outside  the  suburbs  the  real  thrills 
began. 

There  were  the  toy-like  fortifications  of  which  Paris  was 
proud  in  the  'fifties;  there  was  the  black  tangle  of  barbed 
wire,  and  the  trace  of  trenches  (a  mere  depression  on  the 
earth's  surface,  as  if  a  serpent  had  laid  its  heavy  length  on 
a  great,  green  velvet  cushion)  with  which  Paris  had  hoped 
to  delay  the  German  wave.  Only  a  little  way  on,  we  shot 
through  the  sleepy-looking  village  of  Bourget  where  Napo 
leon  stopped  a  few  hours  after  Waterloo,  rather  than 
enter  Paris  by  daylight;  and  Brian  had  a  story  of  the  place. 
A  French  soldier,  a  friend  of  his  (nearly  everyone  he  meets 
is  Brian's  friend!)  who  was  born  there,  told  him  that  OD 
each  anniversary  the  ghost  of  the  " Little  Corporal"  ap- 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  195 

pears,  travel-stained  and  worn,  on  the  road  leading  to 
Bourget.  For  many  years  his  custom  was  to  show  himself 
for  a  second  to  some  seeing  eye,  then  vanish  like  a  mirage 
of  the  desert.  But  since  1914  his  way  is  different.  He 
does  not  confine  his  visit  to  the  hamlet  of  sad  memories. 
He  walks  the  country  side,  his  hands  behind  him,  his 
head  bent  as  of  old;  or  he  rides  a  horse  that  is  slightly 
lame,  inspecting  with  thoughtful  gaze  the  frenzied  indus 
tries  of  war,  war  such  as  he — the  war-genius-— never  saw 
in  his  visions  of  the  future:  the  immense  aerodromes, 
the  bomb  sheds,  the  wireless  stations  and  observation 
towers,  the  giant  "sautisses"  resting  under  green  canvas, 
ready  to  rise  at  dawn ;  and  all  the  other  astounding  features 
of  the  landscape  so  peaceful  in  his  day. 

Even  now  parts  of  it  are  peaceful,  often  the  very  spots 
marked  by  history,  where  it  seems  as  if  each  tree  should 
be  decorated  by  a  Croix  de  Guerre.  For  instance,  there 
was  the  place — a  junction  of  roads — where  the  Uhlans 
with  a  glitter  of  helmets  came  proudly  galloping  toward 
Paris,  and  to  their  blank  amazement  and  rage  had  to 
turn  back.  As  we  halted  to  take  hi  the  scene,  it  was  mys 
terious  as  dreamland  in  the  morning  mist.  Nothing 
moved  save  two  teams  of  cream-coloured  oxen,  their 
moon-white  sides  dazzling  behind  a  silver  veil.  The  pale 
road  stretched  before  us  so  straight  and  far  that  it  seemed 
to  descend  from  the  sky  like  a  waterfall.  Only  the  trees 
had  a  martial  look,  like  tall,  dark  soldiers  drawn  up  in 
line  for  parade. 

It  was  not  till  we  plunged  into  forest  depths  that  I  said  to 
myself:  "We  must  be  coming  near  Senlis!"  For  the  very 
name  "Senlis"  fills  the  mind  with  forest  pictures.  No 


196  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

wonder,  since  it  lies  walled  away  from  the  outer  world — like 
the  Sleeping  Beauty — by  woods,  and  woods,  and  woods: 
the  forests  of  Hallette,  Chantilly,  and  Ermenonville,  each 
as  full  of  history  as  it  is  now  of  aromatic  scents,  and  used  to 
be  of  wild  boars  for  kings  to  kill ! 

I  think  the  best  of  the  forest  pictures  has  Henri  de 
Navarre  for  its  principal  figure.  Brian  and  I  turned  over 
the  pages  of  our  memory  for  the  Becketts,  who  listened 
like  children  to  fairy  tales — or  as  we  listened  when  you  used 
to  embroider  history  for  us  in  those  evening  causeries 
in  the  dear  old  "den, "  Padre. 

I  dug  up  the  story  about  Henri  at  twenty-one,  married 
more  than  a  year  to  beautiful,  lively  Marguerite  de  Valois, 
and  enduring  lazily  the  despotism  of  his  mother-in-law. 
There  in  the  old  palace  of  the  Louvre,  he  loitered  the  time 
away,  practically  a  prisoner  until  the  only  friend  he  had 
with  courage  to  speak  out  (Agrippa  d'Aubigny)  gave  him 
a  lecture.  Agrippa  lashed  his  master  with  the  words 
"coward"  and  "sluggard,"  letting  his  faithful  servants 
work  for  his  interests  while  he  remained  the  slave  of  a 
"wicked  old  witch."  The  Bearnais  had  been  biding  his 
time — "crouching  to  spring":  but  that  slap  in  the  face  set 
him  on  fire.  He  could  no  longer  wait  for  the  right  moment. 
He  decided  to  make  the  first  moment  the  right  one.  His 
quick  brain  mapped  out  a  plan  of  escape  in  which  the  sole 
flaw  was  that  he  must  leave  behind  his  brilliant  bride. 
With  eight  or  ten  of  his  greatest,  most  loyal  gentlemen,  he 
arranged  to  hunt  in  the  forest  of  Senlis ;  and  he  had  shown 
himself  so  biddable,  so  boyish,  that  at  first  even  Catherine 
de  Medicis  did  not  suspect  him.  It  was  only  when  the 
party  had  set  forth  that  the  plot  burst  like  a  bomb,  in 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  197 

Catherine's  own  boudoir,  where  she  sat  with  her  favourite 
son,  vile  Henri  III  of  France. 

Fervacques,  one  of  the  plotters,  had  stopped  in  Paris, 
feigning  illness.  The  plan  had  been  concocted  in  his 
rooms,  and  he  but  waited  for  Navarre's  back  to  be  turned 
to  betray  him.  Marguerite  laughed  when  she  heard  (per 
haps  she  was  in  the  secret),  but  Catherine  said  evil  words, 
of  which  she  knew  a  great  many — especially  in  Italian. 
Orders  were  given  for  the  gates  of  Paris  to  be  shut  (gates 
that  in  those  days  barred  the  road  along  which  we  now 
motored),  but  they  were  too  late.  Navarre  and  his  hun 
ters  had  passed  through.  Agrippa  d'Aubigny  was  not 
among  them.  His  part  had  been  to  watch  the  happenings 
of  the  Court,  and  join  Navarre  later  in  his  own  kingdom, 
but  that  hope  was  broken.  Disguised  as  a  mignon  of 
Henri  III,  he  slipped  out  of  Paris  on  a  fast  horse,  tore  after 
the  Bearnais  and  his  equerries,  and  caught  the  cavalcade 
in  the  forest.  "Thou  art  betrayed ! "  he  cried. 

"  But  not  captured ! "  laughed  Navarre. 

In  haste  they  substituted  a  new  plot  for  the  old.  The 
young  king  was  to  pretend  ignorance  of  the  betrayal. 
He  installed  himself  accordingly  in  the  best  lodgings  of 
Senlis,  talking  loudly  about  hunting  prospects,  arranged 
to  see  a  performance  by  travelling  actors,  and  sent  such  a 
message  back  to  Catherine  and  Henri  that  they  believed 
Fervacques  had  fooled  them. 

By  the  time  they'd  waked  to  the  truth,  Navarre  had 
ridden  safely  out  of  Senlis  with  his  friends,  bound  for  the 
kingdom  on  the  Spanish  border.  Even  then  he  was  a 
man  of  big  ambitions;  so  maybe  he  said  to  himself,  looking 
back  at  Senlis:  "I  shall  travel  this  road  again,  as  king 


198  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

of  France,  to  enter  Paris  in  triumph."  Anyhow,  he  was 
grateful  to  Senlis  for  saving  him,  and  stayed  there  often, 
as  Henri  Quatre,  flirting  with  pretty  ladies,  and  inviting 
them  to  become  abbesses  when  he  tired  of  them. 

Lots  of  things  have  happened  in  Senlis,  because  it's  on 
the  road  to  Paris,  and  for  centuries  has  been  getting  into 
someone's  way.  Why,  if  it  hadn't  been  for  Senlis, 
William  the  Conqueror  might  never  have  conquered! 
You  see,  before  William's  day,  Count  Bernard  of  Senlis 
(who  boasted  himself  a  forty-second  grandson  or  some 
thing  of  Charlemagne)  quarrelled  with  King  Louis  IV  of 
France.  To  spite  him,  Bernard  adopted  the  baby  son  of 
William  Longsword,  Duke  of  Normandy,  killed  in  battle ; 
for  Normandy  was  a  "thorn  in  the  eye"  of  France. 
Thanks  to  Bernard's  help  Normandy  gained  in  riches 
and  importance.  By  the  time  William,  son  of  Robert  the 
Devil  and  Arlette  of  Falaise,  appeared  on  the  scene,  the 
dukedom  was  a  power  in  the  world,  and  William  was  able 
to  dare  his  great  enterprise. 

But  that  was  only  one  incident.  Senlis  was  already  an 
old,  old  town,  and  as  much  entitled  to  call  itself  a  capital 
of  France  as  was  Paris.  Not  for  nothing  had  the  Gallo- 
Romans  given  it  walls  twenty  feet  high  and  thirteen  feet 
thick!  They  could  not  have  builded  better  had  they 
meant  to  attract  posterity's  attention,  and  win  for  their 
strong  city  the  admiration  of  kings.  Clovis  was  the  first 
king  who  fancied  it,  and  settled  there.  But  not  a  king  who 
followed,  till  after  the  day  of  Henri  Quatre,  failed  to  live 
in  the  castle  which  Clovis  began.  Henry  V  of  England 
married  Bonny  Kate  in  the  chateau;  Charles  VIII  of 
France  and  Maximilian  of  Austria  signed  a  treaty  with- 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  199 

in  its  walls;  Francis  I  finished  Notre-Dame  of  Senlis. 
The  Duke  of  Bedford  fought  Joan  of  Arc  there,  and  she 
was  helped  by  the  Marechal  Rais,  no  other  than  Blue 
beard;  so  "Sister  Anne"  must  have  gazed  out  from  some 
neighbouring  tower  for  the  "cloud  of  dust  in  the  distance." 
Somewhere  in  the  vast  encircling  forests  the  Babes  in  the 
Wood  were  buried  by  the  birds,  while  the  wicked  uncle 
reigned  in  their  father's  place  at  Senlis.  In  1814  Prus 
sian,  Russian,  and  British  soldiers  marched  through  the 
town  on  their  tramp  to  Paris.  Cossacks  and  Highlanders 
were  the  "strangest  sight"  Senlis  had  ever  seen,  though  it 
had  seen  many;  but  a  hundred  years  later  it  was  to  see 
a  stranger  one  yet. 

If  ever  a  place  looked  made  for  peace,  that  place  is 
Senlis,  on  its  bright  little  river  Nonette — child  of  the  Oise 
— and  in  its  lovely  valley.  That  was  what  I  said  as  we 
slowed  down  on  the  outskirts :  but  ah,  how  the  thought  of 
peace  broke  as  we  drove  along  the  "kings'  highway" — the 
broad  Rue  de  la  Republique !  In  an  instant  the  drama  of 
September  2nd — eve  of  the  Marne  battle — sprang  to  our 
eyes  and  knocked  at  our  hearts.  We  could  smell  the 
smoke,  and  see  the  flames,  and  hear  the  shots,  the  cries 
of  grief  and  rage,  the  far-off  thunder  of  bridges  blown  up 
by  the  retreating  French  army.  Suddenly  we  knew  how 
the  people  of  Senlis  had  suffered  that  day,  and — strangely, 
horribly — how  the  Germans  had  felt. 

Senlis  hadn't  realized — wouldn't  let  itself  realize — even 
during  bombardment,  what  its  fate  might  be.  It  had 
been  spared,  as  an  open  town,  in  1870;  and  since  then, 
through  long,  prosperous  years  of  peace  a  comfortable 
conviction  had  grown  that  only  pleasant  things  could 


200  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

happen.  Why,  it  was  the  place  of  pleasure,  reaping  a 
harvest  of  fame  and  money  from  its  adventurous  past! 
Tourists  came  from  all  the  world  over  to  put  up  at  the 
Hotel  du  Grand  Cerf,  once  the  hunting  lodge  of  kings. 
They  came  to  loiter  in  narrow  old  streets  whose  very 
names  were  echoes  of  history;  to  study  the  rums  of  the 
Roman  arena  and  the  ancient  walls;  to  hunt  in  the  forest, 
as  royal  men  and  ladies  had  hunted  when  stags  and  wild 
boar  had  been  plentiful  as  foxes  and  rabbits;  or  to  motor 
from  one  neighbouring  chateau  to  another.  Surely  even 
Germans  could  not  doom  such  a  town  to  destruction.  To 
be  sure,  some  people  did  fly  when  a  rabble  of  refugees  from 
Compiegne  poured  past,  hurrying  south;  and  others  fled 
from  the  bombardment  when  big  guns,  fired  from  Lucien 
Bonaparte's  old  village  of  Chamant,  struck  the  cathedral. 
But  many  stayed  for  duty's  sake,  or  because  they  be 
lieved  obstinately  that  to  their  bit  of  the  Ile-de-France  no 
tragedy  could  come. 

They  didn't  know  yet  that  Von  Kluck  and  his  men  were 
drunk  with  victory,  and  that  flaming  towns  were  for  the 
German  army  bonfires  of  triumph.  They  didn't  know  that 
the  Kaiser's  dinner  was  ordered  in  Paris  for  a  certain  date, 
and  that  at  all  costs  Paris  must  be  cowed  to  a  speedy 
peace,  lest  the  dinner  be  delayed.  "Frightfulness"  was 
the  word  of  command,  and  famous  old  Senlis  was  to  serve 
as  a  lesson  to  Paris. 

But  somehow  the  German  master  of  Senlis's  heart 
weakened  when  the  crucial  moment  came.  He  was  at 
the  Hotel  du  Grand  Cerf,  where  a  dinner  was  being  pre 
pared  by  scared  servants  for  thirty  German  officers.  The 
order  was  about  to  be  signed  when  suddenly  a  curS,  small 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  201 

and  pale,  but  lion-brave,  entered  the  room.  How  lie  got 
in  no  one  knew!  Surprise  held  the  general  tongue-tied 
for  three  seconds;  and  a  French  cur6  is  capable  of  much 
eloquence  in  three  seconds. 

He  gambled — if  a  cure  may  gamble! — on  the  chance  of 
his  man  being  Catholic — and  he  won.  That  is  why  (so 
they  told  us  in  the  same  room  three  years  later)  Senlis  was 
struck  with  many  sore  wounds,  but  not  exterminated; 
that  is  why  only  the  Maire  and  a  few  citizens  were  mur 
dered  instead  of  all;  that  is  why  in  some  quarters  of  Senlis 
the  people  who  have  come  back  can  still  dream  that  noth 
ing  happened  to  their  dear  haunt  of  peace  on  Septem 
ber  2, 1914. 

Even  if  Senlis  had  fallen  utterly,  before  the  Germans 
turned  in  their  tracks,  Paris  would  not  have  been  "cowed." 
As  it  was,  Paris  and  all  France  were  roused  to  a  redoubled 
fury  of  resistance  by  the  fate  of  the  Senlis  "hostages." 
So  these  men  did  not  die  in  vain. 

The  scars  of  Senlis  are  still  unhealed.  Whole  streets 
are  blackened  heaps  of  ruin,  and  there  are  things  that 
"make  you  see  red,"  as  Father  Beckett  growled.  But 
the  thing  which  left  the  clearest  picture  in  my  brain  was  a 
sight  sweet  as  well  as  sad :  a  charming  little  chateau,  ruined 
by  fire,  yet  pathetically  lovely  in  martyrdom;  the  green 
trellis  still  ornamenting  its  stained  facade,  a  few  autumn 
roses  peeping  with  childlike  curiosity  into  gaping  win 
dow-eyes;  a  silent  old  gardener  raking  the  one  patch  of 
lawn  buried  under  blackened  tiles  and  tumbled  bricks 
The  man's  figure  was  bent,  yet  I  felt  that  there  was  hope 
as  well  as  loyalty  in  his  work.  "They  will  come  back 
borne  some  day,"  was  the  expression  of  that  faithful  back. 


202  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

In  the  exquisite  beauty  of  the  forest  beyond  Senlis  there 
was  still — for  me — this  note  of  hope.  "Where  beauty  is, 
sadness  cannot  dwell  for  ever!"  As  we  rushed  along  in 
the  big  car,  the  delicate  gray  trunks  of  clustering  trees 
seemed  to  whirl  round  and  round  before  our  eyes,  as  in  a 
votive  dance  of  young  priestesses.  We  saw  bands  of 
German  prisoners  toiling  gnome-like  hi  dim  glades,  but 
they  didn't  make  us  sad  again.  Au  contraire  I  We  found 
poetical  justice  hi  the  thought  that  they,  the  cruel  de 
stroyers  of  trees,  must  chop  wood  and  pile  faggots  from 
dawn  to  dusk. 

So  we  came  to  Compiegne,  where  the  French  army  has 
its  headquarters  in  one  of  the  most  famous  chateaux  in 
the  world. 


CHAPTER  XX 

IT  TOOK  a  mere  glance  (even  if  we  hadn't  known 
beforehand)  to  see  that  noble  Compiegne  craved  no 
Beckett  charity,  no  American  adoption. 

True,  German  officers  lived  for  twelve  riotous  days  in  the 
palace,  in  1914,  selecting  for  home  use  many  of  its  treas 
ures,  and  German  "non-coms."  filled  vans  with  rare 
antiques  from  the  richest  mansions;  still,  they  had  no 
time,  or  else  no  inclination,  to  disfigure  the  town.  The 
most  sensational  souvenir  of  those  days  before  the  Marne 
battle  is  a  couple  of  broken  bridges  across  the  Oise  and 
Aisne,  blown  up  by  the  French  in  the  hour  of  their  re 
treat.  But  that  strange  sight  didn't  break  on  our  eyes 
as  we  entered  Compiegne.  We  seemed  to  have  been  trans 
ported  by  white  magic  from  mystic  forest  depths  to  be 
plumped  down  suddenly  in  a  city  square,  in  front  of  a 
large,  classical  palace.  It's  only  the  genie  of  motoring 
who  can  arrange  these  startling  contrasts ! 

If  we  took  Brian's  advice,  and  "played"  that  our  autos 
were  old-fashioned  coaches;  if  we  looked  through,  instead 
of  at,  the  dozen  military  cars  lined  up  at  the  palace  gates; 
if  we  changed  a  few  details  of  the  soldiers'  uniforms, 
the  gray  chateau  need  not  have  been  Army  Headquarters 
in  our  fancy.  For  us,  the  Germans  might  cease  from 
troubling  and  the  war-weary  be  at  rest,  while  we  skipped 
back  to  any  century  we  fancied. 

203 


204  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

Of  course,  Louis  XV,  son-in-law  of  our  old  friend 
Stanislas  of  Lorraine,  built  the  chateau;  and  Napoleon 
the  Great  added  a  wing  in  honour  of  his  second  bride, 
Marie  Louise.  But  why  be  hampered  by  details  like 
that?  Charles  V  built  a  castle  at  this  old  Roman  Com 
pendium,  on  the  very  spot  where  all  those  centuries  later 
Louis  XV  erected  his  Grecian  facades;  and  Henri  of 
Navarre  often  came  there,  in  his  day.  One  of  Henri's 
best  romances  he  owed  to  Compiegne;  and  while  we  were 
having  what  was  meant  to  be  a  hurried  luncheon,  Mother 
Beckett  made  Brian  tell  the  story.  You  know  Brian  came 
to  Compiegne  before  the  war  and  painted  in  the  palace 
park,  where  Napoleon  I  and  Napoleon  III  used  to  give 
theiTfetes-champetres;  and  he  says  that  the  picture  is  clear 
as  ever  "behind  his  eyes." 

Once  upon  a  time,  Henri  was  staying  in  the  chateau, 
very  bored  because  weather  had  spoiled  the  hunting. 
Suddenly  appeared  the  "handsomest  young  man  of 
France,"  the  Due  de  Bellegarde,  Henri's  equerry,  who 
had  been  away  on  an  adventure  of  love.  Somehow,  he'd 
contrived  to  meet  Gabrielle  d'Estrees,  almost  a  child,  but 
of  dazzling  beauty.  She  hid  him  for  three  days,  and  then, 
alas,  a  treacherous  maid  threatened  to  tell  Gabrielle's 
father.  Bellegarde  had  to  be  smuggled  out  of  the  family 
castle — a  rope  and  a  high  window.  The  tale  amused 
Henri;  and  the  girl's  portrait  fired  him.  He  couldn't 
forget;  and  later,  having  finished  some  business  at  Senlis 
(part  of  which  concerned  a  lady)  he  laid  a  plan  to  cut 
Bellegarde  out.  When  the  Equerry  begged  leave  from 
Compiegne  to  visit  Gabrielle  again,  Henri  consented,  on 
condition  that  he  might  be  the  duke's  companion. 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  205 

Bellegarde  had  to  agree;  and  Henri  fell  in  love  at  sight 
with  the  golden  hair,  blue  eyes,  and  rose-and-white  skin 
of  "Gaby."  She  preferred  Bellegarde  to  the  long-nosed 
king;  but  the  Bearnais  was  never  one  to  take  "no"  for  an 
answer.  He  went  from  Compiegne  again  and  again 
to  the  forbidden  castle,  in  peril  of  his  life  from  Guise  and 
the  League.  After  a  wild  adventure,  in  disguise  as  a 
peasant  with  a  bundle  of  straw  on  his  head,  his  daring 
captured  the  girl's  fancy.  She  was  his;  and  he  was  hers, 
writing  sonnets  to  "Charmante  Gabrielle,"  making 
Marguerite  furious  by  giving  to  the  new  love  his  wife's 
own  Abbey  of  St.  Coraeille,  at  Compiegne.  (One  can 
still  see  its  ruins!) 

I  said  we  meant  to  eat  quickly  and  go  for  an  afternoon 
of  sightseeing — for  early  to-morrow  (I'm  writing  late  at 
night)  we're  due  at  Noyon.  But  Brian  remembered  so 
many  bits  about  Compiegne,  that  by  tacit  consent  we 
lingered  and  listened.  When  he  was  here  last,  he  did  a 
sketch  of  Henri  and  Gabrielle  hunting  in  the  forest; 
"Gaby"  pearl-fair  in  green  satin,  embroidered  with  silver; 
on  her  head  the  famous  hat  of  velvet-like  red  taffetas, 
which  cost  Henri  two  hundred  crowns.  Perhaps  she 
carried  in  her  hand  one  of  the  handkerchiefs  for  which  she 
paid  what  other  women  pay  for  dresses;  but  Brian's 
sketches  are  too  "impressionist"  to  show  handkerchiefs! 
Anyhow,  her  hand  was  in  the  king's,  for  that  was  her  way 
of  riding  with  her  gray-clad  lover;  though  when  she  went 
alone  she  rode  boldly  astride.  Poor  Henri  couldn't  say 
nay  to  the  becoming  green  satin  and  red  hat,  though  he 
was  hard  up  in  those  days.  After  paying  a  bill  of  Gaby's, 
he  asked  his  valet  how  many  shirts  and  handkerchiefs 


206  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

he  had.  "A  dozen  shirts,  torn,"  was  the  answer.  "Hand 
kerchiefs,  five." 

On  the  walls  of  the  room  where  we  ate  hung  beautiful 
old  engravings  of  Napoleon  I  in  his  daily  life  at  the 
Chateau  of  Compiegne.  Napoleon  receiving  honoured 
guests  in  the  vast  Galerie  des  Fetes,  with  its  polished  floor 
and  long  line  of  immense  windows;  Napoleon  and  his 
bride  hi  the  Salon  des  Dames  d'Honneur,  among  the 
ladies  of  Marie  Louise;  Napoleon  listening  wistfully — 
thinking  maybe  of  lost  Josephine — to  a  damsel  at  the 
harp,  in  the  Salon  de  Musique;  Marie  Louise  smirking 
against  a  background  of  teinture  chinoise;  Napoleon 
observing  a  tapestry  battle  of  stags  in  the  Salle  des  Cerfs; 
Napoleon  on  the  magnificent  terrasse  giving  a  garden 
party;  Napoleon  walking  with  his  generals  along  the 
Avenue  des  Beaux  Monts,  in  the  park.  But  these  pic 
tures  rather  teased  than  pleased  us,  because  in  war  days 
only  the  army  enters  palace  or  park. 

Brian  was  luckier  than  the  rest  of  us!  He  had  been 
through  the  chateau  and  forgotten  nothing.  Best  of  all 
he  had  liked  the  bedchamber  of  Marie  Antoinette,  said  to 
be  haunted  by  her  ghost,  in  hunting  dress  with  a  large 
hat  and  drooping  plume.  The  Empress  Eugenie,  it 
seemed,  had  loved  this  room,  and  often  entered  it  alone 
to  dream  of  the  past.  Little  could  she  have  guessed  then 
how  near  she  would  come  to  some  such  end  as  that  fatal 
queen,  second  in  beauty  only  to  herself. 

Even  if  Julian  OTarrell's  significant  glance  hadn't 
called  my  attention  to  his  sister,  I  should  have  noticed 
how  Dierdre  lost  her  sulky  look  in  listening  to  Brian. 

"He  has  something  to  say  to  me  about  those  two  when 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  207 

he  gets  a  chance,  and  he  wants  me  to  know  it  now,"  I 
thought.  But  I  pretended  to  be  absorbed  in  stories  of 
the  Second  Empire.  For  we  sat  on  and  on  at  the  table, 
putting  off  our  visit  to  the  ancient  timbered  houses  and 
the  monument  of  Jeanne  d'Arc,  and  all  the  other  things 
which  called  us  away  from  those  hotel  windows.  It 
seemed  as  if  the  heart  of  Compiegne,  past  and  present, 
were  hidden  just  behind  that  gray  fagade  of  the  palace 
across  the  square ! 

Of  course,  Jeanne  was  the  "star"  heroine  of  Compiegne, 
where  she  fought  so  bravely  and  was  taken  prisoner,  and 
sold  to  the  English  by  John  of  Luxembourg  at  a  very 
cheap  price.  But,  you  know,  she  is  the  heroine  of  such 
lots  of  other  places  we  have  seen  or  will  see,  that  we  let 
her  image  fade  for  us  behind  the  brilliant  visions  of  Com- 
piegne's  pleasures. 

As  a  rule,  old  history  has  the  lure  of  romance  in  it,  and 
makes  modern  history  seem  dull  in  contrast.  But  such 
a  gorgeous  novel  could  be  written  about  Second  Empire 
days  of  Compiegne  (if  only  there  were  a  Dumas  to  write 
it)  that  I  do  think  this  town  is  an  exception. 

Even  "The  Queen's  Necklace"  couldn't  be  more  ex 
citing  than  a  story  of  Eugenie,  with  that  "divinest 
beauty  of  all  ages,"  the  Castiglione,  as  her  rival!  I 
don't  know  how  Dumas  would  begin  it,  but  I  would  have 
the  first  scene  at  a  house  party  of  Louis  Napoleon's,  in 
the  palace  at  Compiegne,  after  he  had  revived  the  old 
custom  of  the  Royal  Hunt:  Napoleon,  already  falling  in 
love,  but  hesitating,  anxious  to  see  how  the  Spanish  girl 
would  bear  herself  among  the  aristocratic  charmers  of 
the  Court,  whether  she  could  hold  her  own  as  a  huntress, 


208  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

as  in  a  ballroom.  I'd  show  her  making  a  sensation  by 
her  horsemanship  and  beauty.  Then  I'd  take  her  through 
the  years,  till  the  dazzling  Florentine  came  to  trouble  her 
peace,  the  adored,  yet  disappointed  divinity  who  cried, 
"If  my  mother  had  brought  me  to  France  instead  of 
marrying  me  to  Castiglione,  an  Italian,  not  a  Spaniard, 
would  have  shared  the  throne  with  Napoleon,  and  there 
would  have  been  no  Franco-Prussian  War ! " 

What  a  brilliant  background  Compiegne  of  those  days 
would  make  for  that  pair,  the  beautiful  young  Empress 
and  the  more  beautiful  Countess! — Compiegne  when  the 
palace  was  crowded  with  the  flower  of  Europe,  when  great 
princes  and  brave  soldiers  romped  through  children's 
games  with  lovely  ladies,  if  rain  spoiled  the  hunting;  when 
Highland  nobles  brought  their  pipers,  and  everyone  danced 
the  wildest  reels,  if  there  were  time  to  spare  from  private 
theatricals  and  tableaux  vivants  !  I  think  I  would  make  my 
story  end,  though,  not  there,  but  far  away;  the  Castiglione 
lying  dead,  with  youth  and  beauty  gone,  dressed  by  her 
last  request  in  a  certain  gown  she  had  worn  on  a  certain 
night  at  Compiegne,  never  to  be  forgotten. 

When  at  last  we  did  go  out  to  walk  and  see  the  wonder 
ful  timbered  houses  and  the  blown-up  bridges,  what  I 
had  expected  to  happen  did  happen :  Julian  O'Farrell  con 
trived  to  separate  me  from  the  others. 

"Haven't  I  been  clever?"  he  asked,  with  his  smile  of  a 
naughty  child. 

"So  far  as  I  know  of  you,"  I  answered,  "you  are  always 
clever. " 

"That's  the  first  compliment  you've  ever  paid  me! 
Thanks  all  the  same,  though  I'd  be  the  opposite  of  clever 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  209 

if  I  thought  you  wanted  me  to  be  flattered.  You're  clever, 
too,  so  of  course  you  know  what  I  mean  as  well  as  I 
know  myself.  Perhaps  you  thought  I  was  being  clever  on 
the  sly.  But  I'm  above  that.  Haven't  I  always  showed 
you  my  cards,  trumps  and  joker  and  all?  " 

"You've  shown  me  how  the  knave  can  take  a  trick!" 

He  laughed.  "History  repeating  itself!  The  Queen 
of  Hearts,  you  remember — and  the  Knave  of — Spades, 
wasn't  it?  I  wish  it  were  diamonds  instead:  but  maybe 
his  spade  will  dig  up  a  few  sparklers  in  the  end.  I've  got 
a  splendid  plan  brewing.  But  that  isn't  what  I  want  to 
talk  about  just  now.  In  fact,  I  don't  want  to  talk  about 
it — yet!  You're  not  going  to  admit  that  you  see  the 
results  of  my  cleverness,  or  that  you'd  understand  them  if 
you  did  see.  So  I'll  just  wave  them  under  your  darling 
nose." 

It  would  have  been  absurd  to  say:  "How  dare  you  call 
my  nose  a  darling?  "  so  I  said  nothing  at  all. 

"You  saw  it  was  a  plot,  getting  Brian  to  go  to  Paris 
with  us,"  he  went  on.  "I  saw  that  you  saw  it.  But  I 
wasn't  sure  and  I'm  not  sure  now,  if  you  realized  its 
design,  as  the  villain  of  the  piece  would  remark." 

"  You  ought  to  know  what  he'd  remark." 

"I  do,  dear  villainess!  I  was  going  to  say,  'Sister 
Villainess,'  but  I  wouldn't  have  you  for  a  sister  at  any 
price.  I've  cast  you  for  a  different  part.  You  may  have 
imagined  that  Dare  and  I  were  just  grabbing  your  brother 
to  spite  you,  and  show  what  we  could  do  with  him." 

"I  did  imagine  that!" 

"Wrong!  Guess  again.  Or  no — you  needn't.  We 
may  be  interrupted  any  minute.  To  save  time  I'll 


210  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

explain  my  bag  of  tricks.  Dare  wasn't  in  on  that  hand 
of  mine." 

"Indeed?" 

"You  don't  believe  me?  That  shows  you're  no  judge 
of  character.  Dare  adores  her  Jule,  and  what  he  wants 
her  to  do  she  does;  but  I  told  you  she  was  no  actress. 
She  can't  act  much  better  off  the  stage  than  on.  I 
wouldn't  trust  her  to  create  the  part  of  the  White  Cat,  let 
alone  that  of  Wily  Vivien.  She  gets  along  all  right  if 
she  can  just  keep  still  and  sulk  and  act  the  Stormy  Petrel. 
I  should  have  pulled  her  through  on  those  lines  if  she'd  been 
obliged  to  play  Jim  Beckett's  broken-hearted  fiancee. 
But  to  do  the  siren  with  your  brother — no,  she  wouldn't 
be  equal  to  that,  even  to  please  me -.couldn't  get  it  across 
the  footlights.  I  had  to  win  her  to  Brian  as  well  as  win 
Brian  to  me.  I  hope  you  don't  mind  my  calling  him  by 
his  Christian  name?  He  says  I  may." 

"Why  did  you  want  to  win  Miss  O'Farrell  to  my 
brother?" 

"You  don't  know?  You'll  have  to  go  down  a  place 
lower  in  this  class !  She  couldn't  make  Brian  really  like 
her,  unless  she  liked  him.  At  first — though  I  knew  better 
— she  stuck  it  out  that  Brian  was  only  a  kind  of  decoy 
duck  for  you  with  the  Becketts " 

"Oh!" 

"Please  don't  look  at  me^as  if  you  were  biting  a  lemon. 
I  didn't  think  so.  And  Dare  doesn't  now." 

"How  sweet  of  her!" 

"She's  turning  sweet.  That's  partly  what  I  was  after. 
I  wormed  myself  into  your  brother's  affections,  to  entice 
him  to  Paris.  I  wanted  Dare  to  learn  that  her  instinct 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

about  him  was  right;  her  instinct  was  always  defending 
him  against  what  she  thought  was  her  reason  and  common 
sense.  Now,  she  sees  that  he's  genuine,  and  she's  secretly 
letting  herself  go — admiring  him  and  wondering  at  him  to 
make  up  for  her  injustice." 

"Are  you  telling  all  this  to  disarm  me?" 

"Not  exactly.  I'm  telling  you  because  I  was  sure  you'd 
find  out  soon  what's  going  on,  and  because  I  thought  an 
open  policy  best.  As  it  is,  you  can't  say  I  haven't  played 
fair  from  the  word  go." 

"I  wish,"  I  cried  out,  "that  the  word  was  'go'!" 

"You're  not  very  kind,  my  dear." 

"Why  should  I  be  kind?" 

"Because  I'm  the  stick  of  your  rocket.  You  can't 
soar  without  me.  And  because  I  love  you  such  a  lot." 

"You!" 

"Yes,  I,  me,  Julian  O'Farrell:  Giulio  di  Napoli. 
Haven't  I  sacrificed  my  prospects  and  my  sister's  pros 
pects  rather  than  throw  you  to  the  lions?  Didn't  I  waste 
those  perfectly  good  snapshots?  Didn't  I  sit  tight,  pro 
tecting  you  silently,  letting  you  have  all  I'd  expected  to 
have  for  myself  and  Dare?" 

I  gasped.     To  speak  was  beyond  my  powers  just  then. 

"I  know  what  you'd  like  to  say,"  Julian  explained  me 
to  myself.  "You'd  love  to  say:  The  d— d  cheek  of  the 
man !  It's  rich  I '  Well,  it  is  rich.  And  /  mean  to  be 
rich  to  match.  That's  in  my  plan.  And  so  are  you  in 
it.  Practically  you  are  the  plan.  To  carry  it  out  calmly, 
without  ructions  and  feathers  flying,  I  put  your  brother 
and  my  sister  in  the  way  of  falling  in  love.  Dare  didn't 
want  to  join  the  Beckett  party  and  didn't  want  to  stay 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

with  it.  Now,  she  does  want  to  stay.  Brian  distrusted 
me  and  was  intrigued  by  Dare.  Now,  he  gives  me  the 

benefit  of  the  doubt.     And  he  has  no  doubts  of  her 

That's  a  beautiful  timbered  house,  isn't  it,  Mr.  Beckett? 
Yes,  I  was  just  telling  Miss  O'Malley  that  this  place 
seems  to  me  the  best  one  we've  visited  yet.  I  shall  never 
forget  it,  or  the  circumstances  of  seeing  it,  shall  you, 
Miss  O'Malley?  Don't  you  think,  sir,  she  might  let  me 
call  her  'Mary,'  now  we  all  know  each  other  so  well?  I'm 
'Julian'  to  her  brother  and  he's  'Brian'  to  me." 

"I  certainly  do  think  she  might,"  said  Father  Beckett, 
with  that  slow,  pleasant  smile  which  Jim  inherited  from 
him. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

IT'S  late  at  night  again — no,  early  to-morrow  morning, 
just  about  the  hour  when  to-morrow's  war-bread  is 
being  baked  by  to-night's  war-bakers.  But  it's  good 
to  burn  the  midnight  electricity  9  because  my  body  and 
brain  are  feeling  electric. 

We  have  had  the  most  astonishing  day ! 

Of  course,  I  expected  that,  because  we  were  going  to 
Noyon3  and  I  evacuated  all  unneeded  thoughts  and  im 
pressions  (for  instance,  those  concerning  the  O'Farrells) 
to  make  room  for  a  crowd  of  new  ones,  as  we  did  at  the 
Hopital  des  Epidemics  with  convalescents,  for  an  incoming 
batch  of  patients.  But  I  didn't  count  on  private,  personal 
emotions — unless  we  blundered  into  an  air  raid  somewhere ! 

You  remember  those  authors  we  met  once,  who  write 
together — the  Sandersons — and  how  they  said  if  they 
ever  dared  put  a  real  incident  in  a  book,  people  picked  out 
that  one  as  impossible?  Well,  this  evening  just  past 
reminded  me  of  the  Sandersons.  We  spent  it  at  the  War 
Correspondents'  Chateau,  not  far  out  of  Compiegne :  that 
is,  we  spent  it  there  if  it  was  real<>  and  not  a  dream. 

I  am  the  only  one  in  Mother  Beckett's  confidence — I 
mean,  about  her  health.  Even  her  husband  doesn't  know 
how  this  trip  strains  her  endurance,  physical  and  mental. 
Indeed^  he's  the  very  one  who  mustn't  know.  It's  agreed 

21S 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

between  us  tliat,  if  she  feels  hopelessly  unfit  for  any  excur 
sion,  /  shall  put  on  invalid  airs  and  she  will  stop  at  home 
to  keep  me  company.  Thus  will  be  avoided  all  danger  of 
Father  Beckett  suspecting  the  weakness  she  hides.  But 
you  can  imagine,  Padre,  knowing  me  as  you  do,  how 
frightened  I  was  to-day — OUT  morning  for  Noyon — lest 
she  should  give  the  signal.  I  felt  I  simply  couldn't  bear 
to  miss  Noyon.  No  use  telling  myself  I  shall  feel  exactly 
the  same  about  Soissons  to-morrow,  and  Roye  and  Ham 
and  Chauny  and  various  others  the  day  after.  My 
reason  couldn't  detach  itself  at  that  instant  from  Noyon. 

Our  daily  programme  as  now  arranged  is :  Me  to  knock 
at  Mother  Beckett's  door  half  an  hour  before  starting- 
tune.  If  she's  fearing  a  collapse,  she  is  to  exclaim :  "My 
child,  how  pale  you  are!"  or  some  other  criticism  of  my 
complexion.  Then  I'm  to  play  up,  replying:  "I  do  feel 
under  the  weather."  Whereupon  it's  easy  for  her  to 
say :  "  You  must  stop  in  the  hotel  and  rest.  I'll  stay  with 
you." 

To  my  joy,  the  greeting  this  morning  was:  "My  dear, 
you  look  fresh  as  a  rose!" 

I  didn't  feel  it;  for  you  know  I  wrote  late  to  you.  And 
at  last  in  bed,  I  disobeyed  your  advice  about  never  worry 
ing:  I  worried  quite  a  lot  over  Brian  and  Dierdre  O'Far- 
rell;  my  having  led  him  into  a  trap,  when  above  all  things 
I  wanted  his  happiness  and  health.  I  could  well  have 
passed  as  pale :  but  I  was  so  pleased  with  the  secret  signal 
that  I  braced  up  and  bloomed  again. 

We  had  to  start  early,  because  there  was  a  good  deal  to 
do  in  the  day;  and  we  were  supposed  to  return  early,  too, 
for  a  rest,  as  there's  the  great  adventure  of  Soissons  before 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  215 

us  to-morrow.  The  Correspondents'  Chateau  wasn't  on 
our  list:  that  was  an  accident,  though  now  it  seems  as  if 
the  v/hole  trip  would  have  been  worth  while  if  only  to 
lead  up  to  that  "accident!" 

There  were  several  ways  we  could  have  taken  to  Noyon, 
but  we  took  the  way  by  Dives  and  Lassigny.  We  shall 
have  chances  for  other  roads,  because,  to  see  various 
places  we  mean  to  visit,  we  shall  go  through  Noyon 
again. 

Once  upon  a  time,  before  the  Germans  came,  Dives 
had  a  lovely  chateau,  part  of  it  very  old,  with  a  round  tur 
ret  under  a  tall  pointed  hat;  the  other  part  comparatively 
young — as  young  as  the  Renaissance — and  all  built  of 
that  pale,  rose-pink  colour  which  most  chateaux  of  this 
forestland,  and  this  Ile-de-France  used  to  wear  in  happy 
days  before  they  put  on  smoke-stained  mourning. 

Now,  instead  of  its  proud  chateau,  Dives  has  a  ruin 
even  more  lovely,  though  infinitely  sad. 

As  for  Lassigny,  it  was  battered  to  death:  yet  I  think 
it  was  glad  to  die,  because  the  Germans  had  turned  it  into 
a  fortress,  and  they  had  to  be  shelled  out  by  the  French. 
Poor  little  Lassigny!  It  must  have  had  what  the  French 
call  "une  beaute  coquette"  and  the  Germans,  it  seemed, 
were  loth  to  leave.  When  they  found  that  they  must  go, 
and  in  haste,  they  boiled  with  rage.  Not  only  did  they 
blow  up  all  that  was  left  in  the  village,  but  they  blew  up 
the  trees  of  the  surrounding  orchards.  They  had  not  the 
excuse  for  this  that  they  needed  the  trees  to  bar  the  way 
of  the  pursuing  French  army.  Such  trees  as  they  felled 
across  the  road  were  the  big  trees  of  the  forest.  Their 
destruction  of  the  young  fruit  trees  was  just  a  slaughter  of 


216  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

innocents;  and  I've  never  hated  war,  Padre,  as  I  hated 
it  to-day — above  all,  German  methods  of  making  war. 
Even  the  countless  graves  on  the  battle-fields  do  not  look 
so  sad  as  those  acres  of  murdered  trees:  blown-up  trees, 
chopped-down  trees,  trees  gashed  to  death  with  axes, 
trees  that  strove  with  all  the  strength  of  Nature  to  live, 
putting  forth  leaves  and  blossoms  as  their  life  blood 
emptied  from  their  veins. 

The  graves  of  dead  soldiers  do  not,  somehow,  look 
utterly  sad.  Their  little  flags  stir  triumphantly  in  the 
breeze,  as  if  waved  by  unseen  hands.  The  caps  that  mark 
the  mounds  seem  to  be  on  the  heads  of  men  invisible, 
under  the  earth,  standing  at  the  salute,  saying  to  those 
who  pass:  "There  is  no  death!  Keep  up  your  hearts, 
and  follow  the  example  we  have  set."  The  souls  of  those 
who  left  their  bodies  on  these  battlefields  march  on,  bearing 
torches  that  have  lit  the  courage  of  the  world,  with  a  light 
that  can  never  fail.  But  the  poor  trees,  so  dear  to  France, 
giving  life  as  a  mother  gives  milk  to  her  child ! — they  died 
to  serve  no  end  save  cruelty. 

The  sight  of  them  made  me  furious,  and  I  glared  like  a 
basilisk  at  any  German  prisoners  we  saw  working  along  the 
good,  newly  made  white  road.  On  then*  green  trousers 
were  large  letters,  "P.  G."  for  "Prisonnier  de  Guerre"; 
and  I  snapped  out  as  we  passed  a  group,  "It  needs  only 
an  I  between  the  P  and  the  G  to  make  it  perfect  /" 

One  man  must  have  heard,  and  understood  English, 
for  he  glanced  up  with  a  start.  I  was  sorry  then,  for  it 
was  like  hitting  a  fallen  enemy.  As  he  had  what  would 
have  seemed  a  good  face  if  he'd  been  British  or  French, 
perhaps  he  was  one  of  those  who  wrote  home  that  the 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  217 

killing  of  trees  in  France  "will  be  a  shame  to  Germany 
till  the  end  of  time." 

Only  a  few  days  ago  Brian  learned  by  heart  a  poem  I 
read  aloud,  a  poem  called  "Les  Arbres  Coupes,'*  by 
Edmond  Rostand.  Teaching  Brian,  I  found  I  had 
learned  it  myself. 

Chacun  de  nos  soldats  cut  son  cri  de  souffrance 
Devant  ces  arbres  morts  qui  jonchaient  les  terrains: 

"  Les  pechers ! "  criaient  ceux  de  TIle-de-France; 

"Et  les  mirabelliers !"  crierent  les  Lorrains. 

Soldats  bleus  demeures  paysans  sous  vos  casques, 
Quels  poings  noueux  et  noirs  vers  le  nord  vous  tendiez ! 
"Les  cerisiers !"  criaient  avec  fureur  les  Basques; 
Et  ceux  du  Rousillon  criaient :     * '  Les  amandiers ! '  * 

Devant  les  arbres  morts  de  PAisne  ou  de  la  Somme, 
Chacun  se  retrouva  Breton  ou  Limousin. 
"Les  pommiers ! "  criaient  ceux.  du  pays  de  la  pomme; 
"  Les  vignes! "  criaient  ceux  du  pays  raisin. 

Ainsi  vous  disiez  tous  le  climat  dont  vous  etes, 
Devant  ces  arbres  morts  que  vous  consideriez, 
— Et  moi,  voyant  tomber  tant  de  jeunes  poetes, 
Helas,  combien  de  f  ois  j  'ai  crie :     *  *  Les  lauriers ! " 

I  love  it.  Yet  I  don't  quite  agree  with  the  beautiful 
turning  at  the  end,  because  the  laurels  of  the  soldier-poets 
aren't  really  dead,  nor  can  they  ever  die.  Even  some  of 
the  trees  which  the  Boches  meant  to  kill  would  not  be 
conquered  by  Germans  or  death.  Many  of  them,  cut 
almost  level  with  the  ground,  continued  to  live,  spouting 


218  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

leaves  close  to  earth  as  a  fountain  spouts  water  when  its 
jet  has  been  turned  low.  All  the  victims  that  could  be 
saved  have  been  saved  by  the  French,  carefully,  scientifi 
cally  bandaged  like  wounded  soldiers:  and  the  Becketts 
talked  eagerly  of  giving  money — much  money — to  Ameri 
can  societies  that,  with  the  British,  are  aiding  France  to 
make  her  fair  land  bloom  again.  Mother  Beckett  became 
quite  inventive  and  excited,  planning  to  start  "instruc 
tion  farms,"  with  a  fund  in  honour  of  Jim.  Seeds  and 
slips  and  tools  and  teachers  should  all  be  imported  from 
Calif ornia.  Oh,  it  would  be  wonderful !  And  how  thank 
ful  she  and  Father  were  that  they  had  Brian  and  Molly 
to  help  make  the  plan  come  true!  I  shouldn't  have  liked 
to  catch  Julian  O'FarrelPs  eye  just  then. 

All  the  way  was  haunted  by  the  tragedy  of  trees,  not 
only  the  tragedy  of  orchards,  and  of  the  roadside  giants 
that  once  had  shaded  the  straight  avenues,  but  the  martyr 
dom  of  trees  in  the  great  dark  forests — oaks  and  elms  and 
beeches.  At  first  glance  these  woods,  France's  shield 
against  her  enemies — rose  still  and  beautiful,  like  mystic 
abodes  of  peace,  against  the  pale  horizon.  But  a  searching 
gaze  showed  how  they  had  suffered.  For  every  trio  of 
living  trees  there  seemed  to  be  one  corpse,  shattered  by 
bombs,  or  blasted  by  evil  gas.  The  sight  of  them  struck 
at  the  heart:  yet  they  were  heroes,  as  well  as  martyrs,  I 
said  to  myself.  They  had  truly  died  for  France,  to  save 
France.  And  as  I  thought  this,  I  knew  that  if  I  were  a 
poet,  beautiful  words  would  come  at  my  call,  to  clothe 
my  fancy  about  the  forests. 

I  wanted  the  right  words  so  much  that  it  was  pain  when 
they  wouldn't  answer  my  wish,  for  I  seemed  to  hear  only  a 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  219 

faint,  far-off  echo  of  some  fine  strain  of  music,  whose  real 
notes  I  failed  to  catch. 

Always  forests  have  fascinated  ine;  sweet,  fairy-peopled 
groves  of  my  native  island,  and  emerald-lit  beech  woods  of 
England.  But  I  never  felt  the  grand  meaning  of  forests  as 
I  felt  them  to-day,  in  this  ravaged  and  tortured  land. 
I  could  have  cried  out  to  them:  "Oh,  you  forests  of 
France,  what  a  part  you Ve  played  in  the  history  of  wars ! 
How  wise  and  brave  of  you  to  stand  in  unbroken  line,  a 
rampart  protecting  your  country's  frontiers,  through 
the  ages.  Forests,  you  are  bands  of  soldiers,  in  armour  of 
wood,  and  you,  too,  like  your  human  brothers,  have  hearts 
that  beat  and  veins  that  bleed  for  France!  You  are 
soldiers,  and  you  are  fortresses — Nature's  fortresses 
stronger  than  all  modern  inventions.  You  are  fortresses 
to  fight  in;  you  are  shelters  from  air-pirates,  you  hide 
cannon;  you  give  shelter  to  your  fighting  countrymen 
from  rain  and  heat.  You  delay  the  enemy;  you  mislead 
him,  you  drive  him  back.  When  you  die,  deserted 
by  the  birds  and  all  your  hidden  furred  and  feathered 
children,  you  give  yourselves — give,  give  to  the  last! 
Your  wood  strengthens  the  trenches,  or  burns  to  warm  the 
freezing  poilus.  Brave  forests,  pathetic  forests!  I  hear 
you  defy  the  enemy  in  your  hour  of  death:  "Strike  us, 
kill  us.  Still  you  shall  never  pass !  " 

We  had  felt  that  we  knew  something  of  the  war-zone 
after  Lorraine;  but  there  the  great  battles  had  all  been 
fought  in  1914,  when  the  world  was  young.  Here,  it 
seemed  as  if  the  earth  must  still  be  hot  from  the  feet  of 
retreating  Germans. 

The  whole  landscape  was  pitted  with  shell-holes*  and 


EVERYMAN'S  LANDt 

spider- webbed  with  barbed  wire.  The  three  lines  of 
French  trenches  we  passed  might,  from  their  look,  have 
been  manned  yesterday.  Piled  along  the  neat  new  road 
were  bombs  for  aviators  to  drop;  queer,  fish-shaped  things, 
and  still  queerer  cages  they  had  been  in.  There  were  long, 
low  sheds  for  fodder.  At  each  turn  was  the  warning 
word,  "Convois."  The  poor  houses  of  such  villages  as 
continued  to  exist  were  numbered,  for  the  first  time  in  their 
humble  lives,  because  they  were  needed  for  military 
lodgings.  Notices  in  the  German  language  were  hardly 
effaced  from  walls  of  half -ruined  buildings.  They  had  been 
partly  rubbed  out,  one  could  see,  but  the  ugly  German 
words  survived,  strong  and  black  as  a  stain  on  one's  past. 
Huge  rounds  of  barbed  wire  which  had  been  brought,  and 
never  used,  were  stacked  by  the  roadside,  and  there  were 
long  lines  of  trench-furniture  the  enemy  had  had  to  aban 
don  in  flight,  or  leave  in  dug-outs:  rough  tables,  chairs, 
rusty  cooking-stoves,  pots,  pans,  petrol  tins,  and  broken 
dishes:  even  lamps,  torn  books,  and  a  few  particularly 
ugly  blue  vases  for  flowers.  They  must  have  been  made 
in  Germany,  I  knew ! 

Wattled  screens  against  enemy  fire  still  protected  the 
road,  and  here  and  there  was  a  "camouflage"  canopy  for  a 
big  gun.  The  roofs  of  beautiful  old  farmhouses  were 
crushed  in,  as  if  tons  of  rock  had  fallen  on  them:  and  the 
moss  which  once  had  decked  their  ancient  tiles  with  vel 
vet  had  withered,  turning  a  curious  rust  colour,  like  dried 
blood.  Young  trees  with  their  throats  cut  were  bandaged 
up  with  torn  linen  and  bagging  on  which  German  printed 
words  were  dimly  legible.  It  would  have  been  a  scene  of 
•unmitigated  grimness,  save  for  last  summer's  enterprising 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

grass  and  flowers,  which  autumn,  kinder  than  war,  had 
not  killed. 

Late  roses  and  early  chrysanthemums  grew  in  the 
gardens  of  broken,  deserted  cottages,  as  if  the  flowers 
yearned  to  comfort  the  wounded  walls  with  soft  caresses, 
innocent  as  the  touch  of  children.  On  the  burned  fagades 
of  houses,  trellised  fruit-trees  clung,  some  dead — mere 
black  pencillings  sketched  on  brick  or  plaster — but  now 
and  then  one  was  living  still,  like  a  beautiful  young  Maz* 
eppa,  bound  to  a  dead  steed. 

So  we  arrived  at  Noyon,  less  than  two  hours  by  car 
from  Compiegne.  The  nearness  of  it  to  the  heart  of 
France  struck  me  suddenly.  I  could  hear  the  echo  of 
sad  voices  curbing  the  optimists:  "The  Germans  are  still 
at  Noyon ! " 

Well — they  are  not  at  Noyon  now.  They've  been  gone 
for  many  moons.  Yet  there's  a  look  on  the  faces  of  the 
people  in  the  town — a  look  when  they  come  to  the  windows 
or  doors  of  their  houses,  or  when  they  hear  a  sudden  noise 
in  the  street — which  makes  those  moons  seem  never  to 
have  waned. 

Washington  has  adopted  Noyon,  so  the  Becketts  could 
not  offer  any  great  public  charity,  but  they  could  sprinkle 
about  a  few  private  good  deeds,  in  remembrance  of  Jim, 
who  loved  the  place,  as  he  loved  all  the  Ile-de-France. 
One  of  Mother  Beckett's  most  valued  letters  from  "Jim- 
on-his-travels "  (as  she  always  says)  is  from  Noyon,  and 
she  was  so  bent  on  reading  it  aloud  to  us,  as  we  drove 
slowly — almost  reverently — into  the  town,  that  she 
wouldn't  look  (I  believe  she  even  grudged  our  looking!) 
at  the  facade  of  the  far-famed  Hotel  de  Ville,  until  she'd 


222  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

come  to  the  end  of  the  last  page.  She  seemed  to  think 
that  to  look  up  prematurely  would  be  like  wanting  to  see 
the  stage  before  the  curtain  rose  on  the  play ! 

I  loved  her  for  it — we  all  loved  her — and  obeyed  as  far 
as  possible.  But  one  couldn't  shut  one's  eyes  to  the 
Stars  and  Stripes  that  flapped  on  the  marvellously  ornate 
front  of  the  old  building — flapped  like  the  wings  of  the 
American  Eagle  that  has  flown  across  the  Atlantic  to 
help  save  France. 

Jim — a  son  of  the  Eagle — who  gave  his  life  for  this  land 
and  for  liberty,  would  have  felt  proud  of  that  flag,  I 
think,  if  he  could  have  seen  it  to-day:  for  because  she 
is  the  adopted  child  of  Washington,  Noyon  "stars"  the 
emblem  of  her  American  mother.  She  hangs  out  no 
other  flag — not  even  that  of  France — on  the  Hotel  de 
Ville.  Maybe  she'll  give  her  own  colours  a  place  there 
later,  but  at  this  moment  the  Star  Spangled  Banner  floats 
alone  in  its  glory. 

No  nice,  normal-minded  person  could  remember,  or 
morbidly  want  to  remember,  the  name  unkindly  given 
by  Julius  Csesar  to  Noyon,  when  he  had  besieged  it.  I 
can  imagine  even  Charlemagne  waving  that  cumbrous 
label  impatiently  aside,  though  Noyon  mixed  with  Laon 
was  his  first  capital.  "Noviodunum  Belgarum  it  may 
have  been"  (I  dare  say  he  said).  "But  I'm  going  to  call 
it  Noyon!" 

He  was  crowned  king  of  Austria  in  Noyon  cathedral — 
an  even  older  one  than  the  cathedral  of  to-day,  which  the 
Germans  have  generously  omitted  to  destroy,  merely 
stealing  all  its  treasures!  But  I  feel  sure  he  doesn't  feel 
Austrian  in  these  days,  if  he  is  looking  down  over  the 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  223 

"Blessed  DamosePs"  shoulder,  to  see  what's  going  on 
here  below.  He  belonged  really  to  the  whole  world 
Why,  didn't  that  fairy-story  king,  Haroun  al  Raschid, 
send  him  from  Bagdad  the  "keys  of  the  tomb  of  Christ," 
as  Chief  of  the  Christian  World?  They  say  his  ghost 
haunts  Noyon,  and  was  always  there  whenever  a  king  was 
crowned,  or  elected — as  Hugh  Capet  was.  Perhaps  it 
may  have  been  Charlemagne  in  the  spirit  who  persuaded 
the  Germans  to  their  great  retreat  from  the  Noyon  front 
this  last  spring  of  1917 ! " 

Coming  into  the  Place,  and  stopping  in  front  of  the 
Hotel  de  Ville,  gave  me  the  oddest  sense  of  unreality, 
because,  when  we  were  in  Paris  the  other  day,  I  saw  the 
scene  in  a  moving  picture:  the  first  joyful  entry  of  the 
French  soldiers  into  the  town,  when  the  Germans  had 
cleared  out.  I  could  hardly  believe  that  I  wasn't  just  a 
figure  flickering  across  a  screen,  and  that  the  film  wouldn't 
hurry  me  along  somewhere  else,  whether  I  wanted  to  go  or 
not. 

There  were  the  venerable  houses  with  the  steep  slate 
roofs,  and  singularly  intelligent-looking  windows,  whose 
bright  panes  seemed  to  twinkle  with  knowledge  of  what 
they  had  seen  during  these  dreadful  eighteen  months  of 
German  occupation.  There  were  the  odd,  unfinished 
towers  of  the  cruciform  cathedral — quaint  towers,  topped 
with  wood  and  pointed  spirelets — soaring  into  the  sky 
above  the  gray  colony  of  clustered  roofs.  There  was  the 
cobbled  pavement,  glittering  like  masses  of  broken  glass, 
after  a  shower  of  rain  just  past;  and  even  more  interesting 
than  any  of  these  was  the  fantastically  carved  facade  of 
the  Hotel  de  Ville,  which  has  lured  thousands  of  tourists 


224  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

to  Noyon  in  days  of  peace.  Who  knows  but  they  have 
been  coming  ever  since  1532,  when  it  was  finished? 

At  first  sight,  we  should  never  have  guessed  what  Noyon 
had  suffered  from  the  Germans.  It  was  only  after  wander 
ing  through  the  splendid  old  cathedral  of  Notre-Dame, 
stripped  of  everything  worth  stealing,  and  going  from 
street  to  street  (we  paused  a  long  time  in  the  one  where 
Calvin  was  born,  a  disagreeable,  but  I  suppose  useful, 
man !)  that  we  began  to  realize  the  slow  torture  inflicted  by 
the  Germans.  Of  course,  "lessons"  had  to  be  taught. 
Rebellious  persons  had  to  be  "  punished. "  Nothing  but 
justice  had  been  done  upon  the  unjust  by  their  just 
conquerors.  And  oh,  how  thorough  and  painstaking  they 
were  in  its  execution ! 

As  they'd  destroyed  all  surrounding  cities  and  villages, 
they  had  to  put  the  "evacuated"  inhabitants  somewhere 
(those  they  couldn't  use  as  slaves  to  work  in  Germany),  so 
they  herded  the  people  by  the  thousand  into  Noyon. 
That  place  had  to  be  spared  for  the  Germans  themselves 
to  live  in,  being  bigger  and  more  comfortable  than  others 
in  the  neighbourhood;  so  it  was  well  to  have  as  many  of 
the  conquered  as  possible  interned  under  their  own  sharp 
eyes.  Noyon  was  "home"  to  six  thousand  souls  before 
the  war.  After  the  Germans  marched  in,  it  had  to  hold 
ten  thousand.  But  a  little  more  room  in  the  houses  was 
thriftily  obtained  by  annexing  all  the  furniture,  even  beds. 
Tables  and  chairs  they  took,  too,  and  stoves,  and  cooking 
utensils,  which  left  the  houses  conveniently  empty,  to  be 
shared  by  families  from  Roye,  and  Nesle,  and  Ham,  and 
Chauny — oh,  so  many  other  towns  and  hamlets,  that  one 
loses  count  in  trying  to  remember! 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  225 

How  the  people  lived,  they  hardly  know  now,  in  looking 
back,  some  of  them  told  us,  as  we  walked  about  with  a 
French  officer  who  was  our  guide.  Eighteen  months  of 
it!  Summer  wasn't  quite  so  bad.  One  can  always  bear 
hardships  when  weather,  at  least,  is  kind.  But  the  win 
ters!  It  is  those  winters  that  scarcely  bear  thinking  of, 
even  now. 

No  lights  were  allowed  after  dark.  All  doors  must  be 
left  open,  for  the  German  military  police  to  walk  in  at 
any  hour  of  the  night,  to  see  what  mischief  was  brewing 
in  the  happy  families  caged  together.  There  was  no  heat 
ing,  and  often  no  fire  for  cooking,  consequently  such  food 
as  there  was  had  to  be  eaten  cold.  No  nose  must  be 
shown  out  of  doors  unless  with  a  special  permit,  so  to 
speak,  displayed  on  the  end  of  it.  Not  that  there  was 
much  incentive  to  go  out,  as  all  business  was  stopped,  and 
all  shops  closed.  Without  "le  Comite  Am£ricain," 
thousands  would  have  starved,  so  it  was  lucky  for  Noyon 
that  the  United  States  was  neutral  then ! 

We  spent  hours  seeing  things,  and  talking  to  people — 
old  people,  and  children,  and  soldiers — each  one  with  a 
new  side  of  the  great  story  to  tell,  as  if  each  had  been 
weaving  a  few  inches  of  some  wonderful,  historic  piece  of 
tapestry,  small  in  itself,  but  essential  to  the  pattern. 
Then  we  started  for  home — I  mean  Compiegne — by  a 
different  way;  the  way  of  Carlepont,  named  after  Charle 
magne,  because  it  is  supposed  that  he  was  born  there. 

The  forest  was  even  more  lovable  than  before,  a  younger 
forest:  fairylike  in  beauty  as  a  rainbow,  in  its  splashed 
gold  and  red,  and  green  and  violet  and  orange  of  autumn. 
The  violet  was  "atmosphere,"  but  it  was  as  much  a  part 


226  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

of  the  forest  as  the  leaves,  or  the  delicate  trunks  dim  as 
ghosts  in  shadow,  bright  as  organ-pipes  where  sun  touched 
them.  Out  from  the  depths  came  sweet,  mysterious 
breaths,  and  whispers  like  prophecies  of  peace.  But  to 
this  region  of  romance  there  were  sharp  contrasts.  Not 
even  dreams  have  sharper  ones!  German  trenches, 
chopped  into  blackened  wastes  that  once  were  farmlands, 
and  barbed  wire  wriggling  like  snake-skeletons  across 
dreary  fields. 

We  got  out  of  our  cars,  and  went  into  the  trenches, 
thinking  thoughts  unspeakable.  Long  ago  as  the  Germans 
had  vanished,  and  every  corner  had  been  searched,  our 
officer  warned  us  not  to  pick  up  "souvenirs."  Some  in 
fernal  machine  might  have  been  missed  in  the  search  and 
nothing  was  to  be  trusted — no,  not  even  a  bit  of  innocent- 
looking  lead  pencil. 

They  were  trenches  made  to  live  in,  these!  They  had 
been  walled  with  stones  from  ruined  farmhouses.  The 
"dug-outs"  were  super-dug-outs.  We  saw  concealed 
cupolas  for  machine-guns,  and  "les  offiders  boches"  had 
had  a  neat  system  of  douches. 

There  was  no  need  to  worry  that  Brian  might  stumble 
or  fall  in  the  slippery  labyrinths  we  travelled,  for  he  had 
Dierdre  O'Farrell  as  guide.  I'm  afraid  I  knew  what  it 
was  to  be  jealous:  and  this  new  gnawing  pain  is  perhaps 
meant  to  be  one  of  my  punishments.  Of  course  it's  no 
more  than  I  deserve.  But  that  Brian  should  be  chosen  as 
the  instrument,  all  unknowingly,  and  happily — that  hurts! 

It  was  just  as  we  were  close  to  Compiegne,  not  twenty 
niinutes  (in  motor  talk)  outside  the  town,  that  the  "acci 
dent "  happened. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

A  FIRST  it  seemed  an  ordinary,  commonplace 
accident.  A  loud  report  like  a  pistol  shot:  a  fat 
tire  down  on  our  car :  that  was  all. 

We  stopped,  and  the  little  taxi-cab,  tagging  on  behind 
like  a  small  dog  after  a  big  one,  halted  in  sympathy. 
Julian  O'Farrell  jumped  out  to  help  Morel,  our  one- 
legged  chauffeur,  as  he  always  does  if  anything  happens, 
just  to  remind  the  Becketts  how  kind  and  indispensable 
he  is.  We  knew  that  we  should  be  hung  up  for  a  good 
twenty  minutes,  so  the  whole  party,  with  the  exception  of 
Mother  Beckett  and  me,  deserted  the  cars.  Brian  was 
with  Dierdre.  He  had  no  need  of  his  sister;  so  I  was  free 
to  stop  with  the  little  old  lady,  who  whispered  in  my  ear 
that  she  was  tired. 

Father  Beckett  and  Julian  watched  Morel,  giving  him  a 
word  or  a  hand  now  and  then.  Dierdre  and  Brian  saun 
tered  away,  deep  in  argument  over  Irish  politics  (it's 
come  to  that  between  them:  and  Dierdre  actually  listens  to 
Brian!).  Mother  Beckett  drifted  into  talk  of  Jim,  as  she 
loves  to  do  with  me,  and  I  wandered,  hand  in  hand  with 
her,  back  into  his  childhood.  Blue  dusk  was  falling 
like  a  rain  of  dead  violets — just  that  peculiar,  faded  blue; 
and  as  I  was  absorbed  in  the  tale  of  a  nursery  fire  (Jim, 
at  six,  playing  the  hero)  I  had  no  eyes  for  scenery.  I 
was  but  vaguely  aware  that  not  far  off  loomed  a  gateway, 

227 


228  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

adorned  with  a  figure  of  the  Virgin.  A  curving  avenue 
led  to  shadowy,  neglected  lawns,  dimly  suggesting  some 
faded  romance  of  history. 

Presently,  from  between  the  open  gates  came  a  man  in 
khaki,  accompanied  by  a  tall,  slim,  and  graceful  dog.  It 
was  he,  not  the  man,  that  caught  my  eye  and  for  an  in 
stant  snatched  my  thought  from  Little  Boy  Jim  rescuing  a 
rocking-horse  at  the  risk  of  his  life.  He  was  a  police  dog 
with  the  dignity  of  a  prince  and  the  lightness  of  a  plume. 

"Lovely  creature!"  I  said  to  myself,  as  he  and  the 
khaki  man  swung  toward  us  down  the  road.  And  I 
wished  that  Brian  could  see  him,  for  the  dog  Brian  loved 
and  lost  at  the  Front  was  a  Belgian  police  dog. 

Perhaps,  Padre,  Brian  wrote  you  about  his  wonderful 
pet,  that  he  thought  worthy  to  name  after  the  dog-star 
Sirius.  I've  forgotten  to  ask  if  he  did  write;  but  I  seldom 
had  a  letter  from  him  from  the  trenches  that  didn't  mention 
Sirius. -Every  one  seemed  to  adore  the  dog,  which  developed 
into  a  regimental  mascot.  What  his  early  history  was  can 
never  be  known:  but  Brian  rescued  him  from,  a  burning 
chateau  in  Belgium,  just  as  Jim  rescued  the  rocking-horse 
of  Mother  Beckett's  nursery  story,  though  with  rather 
more  risk!  It  was  a  chateau  where  some  hidden  tragedy 
must  have  been  enacted,  because  the  Germans  took  pos 
session  of  it  with  the  family  still  there — such  of  the 
family  as  wasn't  fighting:  two  young  married  women, 
sisters,  wives  of  brothers.  But  when  the  Germans  ran 
before  the  British,  and  fired  the  chateau  as  they  went, 
not  a  creature  living  or  dead  was  left  in  the  house — except 
the  dog — and  nothing  has  ever  been  heard  of  the  sisters. 

The  fire  was  raging  so  fiercely  when  Brian's  regiment 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  229 

arrived  that  no  one  would  have  ventured  into  the  house 
if  a  dog  hadn't  been  heard  to  howl.  You  know  how  Brian 
loves  dogs.  When  he  found  that  the  sound  came  from  a 
certain  room  on  the  ground  floor,  he  determined  to  get  in 
somehow.  Masses  of  ivy  cloaked  that  side  of  the  chateau. 
It  was  beginning  to  crackle  with  fire  that  flamed  out  from 
other  windows,  but  Brian  climbed  the  thick,  rope-like 
stems,  hundreds  of  years  old,  and  smashed  his  way  through 
the  window.  The  room  was  filling  with  smoke.  The 
dog's  voice  was  choked.  Brian's  eyes  streamed,  but  he 
wouldn't  give  up.  Only  by  crawling  along  the  floor  under 
the  smoke  curtain  could  he  get  at  the  dog.  Somebody 
had  meant  to  murder  the  animal,  for  he  had  been  chained 
to  the  leg  of  a  table. 

Brian  wrote  that  the  dog  realized  his  danger,  and  was 
grateful  as  a  human  being  to  his  rescuer.  His  worship  of 
Brian  was  pathetic.  He  seemed  to  care  for  no  one  else, 
though  he  was  too  fine  a  gentleman  not  to  be  polite  to  all — 
all,  that  is,  except  Germans.  They  never  dared  let  him 
loose  when  prisoners  were  about.  The  sight  of  a  gray- 
green  uniform  was  to  that  dog  what  a  red  rag  is  to  a  bull. 
For  him  some  horror  was  associated  with  it — &  horror  which 
must  remain  a  mystery  for  us. 

The  day  Brian  lost  his  eyesight  he  lost  Sirius.  When 
he  came  back  to  consciousness,  only  to  learn  that  he  was 
blind,  his  first  thought  was  of  his  friend.  No  one  knew 
what  had  happened  to  the  dog.  The  chances  seemed  to 
be  that  the  shell  which  had  buried  Brian  had  buried 
Sirius,  too;  but  Brian  wouldn't  believe  this.  Somehow  the 
dog  would  have  contrived  to  escape.  I  had  to  promise 
that,  whenever  I  happened  to  see  a  dark  gray,  almost  black 


230  EVERYMAN 'S  LAND 

Belgian  police  dog  of  beautiful  shape,  I  would  call  "Sirius" 
to  see  if  he  answered. 

More  than  once  since  this  trip  began  I've  called  "Sir 
ius  ! "  to  police  dogs,  not  knowing  whether  they  were  Bel 
gian,  German,  or  Dutch,  and  they  have  answered  only 
with  glances  of  superb  scorn.  This  time  I  hesitated. 
The  mental  picture  I  saw  of  myself — a  vague  young  wo 
man,  seated  in  an  automobile  stranded  by  the  roadside, 
trying  to  lure  away  the  dog  of  a  strange  man — was  dis 
concerting.  While  I  debated  whether  to  break  my 
promise  or  behave  like  a  wild  school  girl,  the  animal 
paused  in  his  listless  trot.  He  stopped,  as  if  he'd  been 
struck  by  an  unseen  bullet,  quivered  all  over,  and  shot 
past  us  like  a  torpedo.  A  minute  later  I  heard  a  tumultu 
ous  barking — a  barking  as  if  the  gates  of  a  dog's  heaven 
had  suddenly  opened. 

I  sprang  up  in  the  car,  and  turning  round,  knelt  on  the 
seat  to  see  what  was  going  on  behind  us.  Far  away  were 
Brian  and  Dierdre.  And  oh,  Padre,  I  can  never  dislike 
that  girl  again!  I  apologize  for  everything  I  ever  said 
against  her.  She  saw  that  great  police  dog  making  for 
blind  Brian.  And  you  know,  a  police  dog  can  look  for 
midable  as  a  panther.  She  took  no  time  to  think,  though 
the  idea  might  have  sprung  to  her  mind  that  the  creature 
was  mad.  She  simply  threw  herself  in  front  of  Brian.  It 
was  an  offer  of  her  life  for  his. 

I  could  do  nothing,  of  course.  I  was  too  far  off.  I'm 
not  a  screaming  girl,  but  I'm  afraid  I  did  give  a  shriek,  for 
Mother  Beckett  started  up,  and  cried  out:  "What's  the 
matter?" 

I  didn't  answer  her.     I  hardly  heard.     I  forgot  everyone- 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  231 

except  Brian  and  that  girl.  It  was  only  when  the  thing 
was  over,  and  we  were  all  talking  at  once,  that  I  realized 
how  the  others  had  shared  my  fright. 

Perhaps  Brian  recognized  the  dog's  bark  at  a  distance, 
for  he  says  a  dog's  voice  is  individual  as  a  man's.  Or  his 
instinct — made  magically  keen  by  his  blindness — told  him 
in  a  flash  of  inspiration  what  his  eyes  couldn't  see.  Any 
how,  he  knew  that  Dierdre  was  in  danger,  and  almost  flung 
her  behind  him.  He  was  just  in  time  to  save  her  from 
being  thrown  down  by  the  dog,  who  hurled  himself  like  a 
young  avalanche  at  Brian.  To  those  who  had  no  clue 
to  the  truth,  it  must  have  seemed  that  the  animal  was 
mad.  Julian,  and  Father  Beckett,  and  the  khaki  man 
rushed  to  the  rescue,  only  to  see  the  dog  and  Brian  in 
each  other's  arms,  the  creature  licking  Brian's  face, 
laughing  and  crying  at  the  same  time — which  you  know, 
Padre,  a  dog  frantic  with  joy  at  sight  of  a  long-lost  master 
can  do  perfectly  well!  It  seems  too  melodramatic  to 
be  true,  but  it  is  true :  the  dog  was  Sirius. 

You'll  think  now  that  this  is  the  "astonishing  thing" 
which  would — I  said — have  made  this  whole  trip  worth 
while.  But  no :  the  thing  I  meant  has  little  or  nothing  to 
do  with  the  finding  of  Sirius. 

Even  Mother  Beckett  could  sit  still  no  longer.  She 
had  to  be  helped  out  of  the  car  by  me  to  join  the  group 
round  Brian  and  the  dog.  She  took  my  arm,  and  I 
matched  my  steps  to  her  tiny  trot,  though  I  pined  to 
sprint!  We  met  Father  Beckett  coming  back  with  apolo 
gies  for  his  one  minute  of  forgetfulness.  The  first  time  in 
years,  I  should  think,  that  he  had  forgotten  his  wife  for 
sixty  whole  seconds ! 


232  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

"It's  like  something  in  a  story  or  a  play,"  he  panted, 
out  of  breath.  "This  is  Brian's  lost  dog.  You've  heard 
him  talk  of  Sirius,  my  dear.  There  can  be  no  doubt 
it's  the  same  animal!  The  man  who  thought  he  was  its 
master  admits  that.  And  guess  who  he  is — the  man,  not 
the  dog." 

Mother  Beckett  reminded  her  husband  that  never  had 
she  succeeded  in  a  guess.  But  she  was  saved  trying 
by  the  arrival  of  the  man  in  khaki  who,  having  abandoned 
his  dog — or  being  abandoned  by  it — had  followed  Mr, 
Beckett. 

"Why,  Jack  Curtis  I"  gasped  the  little  old  lady.  "It 
can't  be  you ! " 

"I  guess  it's  nobody  else,"  laughed  a  soldierly  fellow, 
with  the  blackest  eyes  and  whitest  teeth  imaginable. 
"I'm  doing  the  war  for  the  New  York  Record — staying 
here  at  the  chateau  of  Royalieu  with  the  British  cor 
respondents  for  the  French  front." 

I  longed  to  get  to  Brian  and  be  introduced  to  Sirius,  but 
Mother  Beckett  caught  my  arm.  "Mary,  dear,"  she 
cooed,  "  I'd  like  you  and  Mr.  Curtis  to  meet.  Jack,  this 
is  Miss  O'Malley,  who  would  have  been  our  Jim's  wife  if 
he'd  lived.  And  Mary,  this  is  one  of  Jim's  classmates  at 
college;  a  very  good  friend." 

The  khaki  young  man  (American  khaki)  held  out  his 
hand  and  I  put  mine  into  it.  He  stared  at  me — a  pleas 
ant,  sympathetic,  and  not  unadmiring  stare — peering 
nearsightedly  through  the  twilight. 

" So  Jim  found  you  again,  after  all?  "  he  asked,  in  a  quiet, 
low  voice,  not  utterly  unlike  Jim's  own.  Men  of  the 
same  university  do  speak  alike  all  over  the  world. 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  233 

"I — don't  quite  understand,"  I  stammered.  When 
any  sudden  question  about  Jim  is  flung  at  me  before  his 
parents,  I'm  always  a  little  scared ! 

"Jim  and  I  had  a  bet,"  Mr.  Curtis  explained,  "that  he 
couldn't  travel  incog.,  through  Europe  for  a  given  length 
of  time,  in  a  big  auto,  doing  himself  well  everywhere, 
without  his  real  name  coming  out.  He  won  the  bet,  but 
he  told  me — after  he  got  over  a  bad  dose  of  typhoid — that 
he'd  lost  the  only  girl  he'd  ever  loved  or  could  love — lost 
her  through  that  da —  that  stupid  bet.  He  described  the 
girl.  I  guess  there  aren't  two  of  her  on  earth ! " 

"That's  a  mighty  fine  compliment,  Molly!"  said 
Father  Beckett. 

Just  then  Brian  called,  and  I  wasn't  sorry,  for  I  couldn't 
find  the  right  answer  for  the  man  who  had  separated  Jim 
Beckett  from  me.  It  was  all  I  could  do  to  get  my  breath. 

"Why,  of  course,  that's  your  brother!  I  might  have 
known  by  the  likeness.  Gee,  but  it's  great  about  the  dog! 
No  wonder  it  despised  the  name  of  'Sherlock.'  Rather  a 
come-down  from  a  star!  There's  a  big  story  in  this. 
Your  party  will  have  to  dine  with  us  correspondents,  and 
talk  things  over.  The  crowd  will  be  delighted.  Say 
yes,  Mrs.  Beckett!" 

I  heard  no  more,  for  I  was  on  my  way  to  Brian.  But 
by  the  time  I'd  thanked  Dierdre,  been  slightly  snubbed 
by  her,  and  successfully  presented  to  Sirius,  it  was  settled 
that  we  should  spend  our  evening  at  Royalieu  with  the 
correspondents.  The  Beckett  auto  was  ready,  but  the 
dog's  joy  was  too  big  for  the  biggest  car,  so  Brian  and  I 
walked  to  the  chateau,  and  Jack  Curtis  with  us,  to  ex 
change  stories  of  le  grand  chien  policier,  late  "Sherlock." 


234  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

Matching  the  new  history  on  to  the  early  mystery  was 
like  fitting  in  the  lost  bits  of  a  jigsaw  puzzle — bits  which, 
when  missing,  left  the  picture  void.  Between  Brian  and 
the  war  correspondent  the  pattern  came  to  life:  but 
there's  one  piece  in  the  middle  which  can  never  be  re 
stored.  Only  one  person  could  supply  that:  a  German 
officer,  and  he  is  no  longer  in  this  world. 

Jack  Curtis  found  the  police  dog,  badly  wounded,  at 
a  place  near  Paschendaele,  where  the  Germans  had  tem 
porary  headquarters  and  had  been  driven  out  after  a 
fierce  struggle.  One  of  the  dog's  legs  was  broken,  and 
blood  had  dried  on  his  glossy  coat,  but  he  "registered 
delight"  (as  moving  picture  people  say)  when  he  limped 
out  of  a  half-ruined  house  to  welcome  the  rush  of  British 
khaki.  The  few  inhabitants  who  had  lived  in  the  village 
through  the  German  occupation,  knew  the  dog  as  "Sieg 
fried,"  to  which  name  he  had  obstinately  refused  to 
answer.  His  German  master,  a  captain,  whom  he  obeyed 
sullenly,  always  dragged  him  about  in  leash,  as  he  never 
willingly  kept  at  heel.  Everyone^  wondered  why  the 
officer,  who  was  far  from  lenient  with  his  men,  showed 
patience  with  the  dog.  But  his  orderly  explained  that 
Captain  von  Busche  had  picked  up  the  starving  animal 
weeks  before,  wandering  about  No  Man's  Land.  The 
creature  was  valuable,  and  his  dislike  of  the  gray-green 
uniform  had  puzzled  Von  Busche.  His  failure  to  win  the 
dog's  affection  piqued  him,  and  in  his  blundering  way 
he  persevered.  The  people  of  the  village  were  more 
successful.  They  made  friends  with  "Siegfried,"  to 
Von  Busche's  annoyance;  and  a  day  or  two  before  the 
hurried  German  retreat  under  bombardment,  the  dog 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  235 

was  beaten  for  deserting  his  master  to  follow  a  little 
boy.  The  boy,  too,  was  punished  for  his  "impudence" 
in  calling  the  dog.  People  were  indignant,  and  there 
were  secret  murmurings  about  revenge. 

That  night,  however,  Fate  took  the  matter  in  hand. 
Precisely  what  happened  is  the  bit  that  must  remain 
missing  in  the  puzzle.  The  dog  slept  in  the  room  with 
his  master,  in  a  house  where  several  young  officers  lived 
close  to  headquarters.  All  of  them  had  been  out  playing 
cards  at  a  tavern.  Von  Busche  returned  earlier  than  the 
rest.  He  was  seen  in  the  street  the  worse  for  drink.  He 
went  into  the  house,  and  must  have  gone  to  his  room, 
where  the  police  dog  had  been  shut  up  for  hours  in  dis 
grace.  A  moment  later  there  was  a  yell,  then  a  gurgling 
shriek.  The  neighbours  listened — and  shrugged  their 
shoulders.  The  parents  of  the  child  who  had  been  beaten 
by  Von  Busche  lived  next  door.  They  heard  sounds  of  a 
scuffle;  furniture  falling;  faint  groans  and  deep  growls. 
Lips  dared  not  speak,  but  eyes  met  and  said:  "The  dog's 
done  what  we  couldn't  do." 

Silence  had  fallen  long  before  Von  Busche's  fellow 
officers  came  home;  such  silence  as  that  town  knew,  where 
bombardment  ceased  not  by  day  or  night.  Before  dawn, 
a  bomb  fell  on  the  roof  of  the  house,  which  till  then  had 
never  been  touched,  and  the  officers  all  scuttled  out  to 
save  themselves;  all  but  Von  Busche.  Whether  in  the 
confusion  he  was  forgotten,  or  whether  it  was  thought 
he  had  not  come  home,  no  one  could  tell.  He  was  not 
seen  again  till  after  the  Germans  had  packed  up  in  haste 
and  decamped,  which  they  did  a  few  hours  later,  leaving 
the  townsfolk  to  shelter  in  cellars.  It  was  only  when  the 


236  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

British  arrived,  and  Siegfried  limped  out  from  the  bat 
tered  house,  that  the  dog's  existence  was  recalled — and 
the  sounds  in  the  night.  Then  the  house  was  searched, 
and  Von  Busche's  body  found,  half  buried  under  fallen 
tiles  and  plaster.  There  were  wounds  in  his  throat, 
however,  not  to  be  accounted  for  by  the  accident.  The 
dog's  broken  leg  was  also  a  mystery.  "I  had  the  poor 
boy  mended  up  by  a  jolly  good  surgeon,"  Jack  Curtis 
finished  his  story.  "He's  as  sound  as  ever  now.  He 
attached  himself  to  me  from  the  first,  as  if  he  knew  he 
had  to  thank  me  for  his  cure,  but  he  wasn't  enthusiastic. 
I  couldn't  flatter  myself  that  I  was  loved!  I  had  the 
idea  I  wasn't  what  he  wanted — that  he'd  like  to  tell  me 
what  he  did  want,  and  politely  bid  me  good-bye  for 
ever." 

"You  don't  know  where  Von  Busche  got  hold  of  the 
dog,  do  you?  "  Brian  asked. 

"Only  what  his  orderly  told  people,  that  it  was  in 
Flanders,  close  to  some  ruined,  burnt-up  chateau  that  he 
could  hardly  be  forced  to  leave,  though  he  was  starving." 

"I  thought  he'd  get  back  there!"  Brian  said.  "As 
for  Von  Busche — I  wonder — but  no!  If  it  had  been  he 
the  first  time,  would  the  dog  have  waited  all  those  weeks 
for  his  revenge?  " 

"I  don't  understand,"  said  the  war  correspondent. 

"I  don't  myself,"  answered  Brian.  "But  maybe  the 
dog  will  manage  to  make  me,  some  day.  I  was  think 
ing — how  I  found  him,  tied  to  a  table  in  a  burning  room. 
If  Von  Busche But  anyhow,  Sirius,  you're  no  assas 
sin  !  At  worst,  you're  an  avenger." 

The  dog  leaped  upon  Brian  at  sound  of  the  remembered 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  237 

name.  Odd  that  three  of  his  names,  chosen  by  different 
men,  should  begin  with  "  S  " ! 

He's  going  to  be  an  exciting  passenger  for  the  Becketts' 
car  I  foresee.  But  Brian  can  make  him  do  anything, 
even  to  keeping  quiet.  And  the  trip  can't  go  on  a  step 
without  him  now ! 

I  felt  that  Jack  Curtis  had  been  hoping  for  a  chance  to 
speak  with  me  alone — about  Jim.  But  there  was  no  such 
chance  then.  We  were  met  by  two  of  the  British  corre 
spondents,  and  a  French  officer  with  a  very  high  and  ancient 
title,  who  was  playing  host  (for  France)  to  the  newspaper 
men  in  this  old  chdteau,  once  a  convent.  You  see,  the 
two  cars  had  shot  past  as  we  walked;  and  by  the  time  we 
reached  the  door  preparations  were  being  made  for  an 
impromptu  party, 

Never  was  a  dinner  so  good,  it  seemed,  and  never  was 
talk  so  absorbing.  Some  of  it  concerned  an  arch  of 
honour  or  a  statue  to  be  placed  over  the  spot  where  the 
first  men  of  the  American  army  fell  in  France:  at  Bethel- 
mont;  some  concerned  a  road  whose  constructon  is  being 
planned — a  sacred  road  through  Belgium  and  France, 
from  the  North  Sea  to  Alsace;  a  road  to  lead  pilgrims  past 
villages  and  towns  destroyed  by  Germany.  This,  ac' 
cording  to  the  correspondents  who  were  full  of  the  idea, 
doesn't  mean  that  the  devastation  isn't  ultimately  to 
be  repaired.  The  proposal  is,  to  leave  in  each  martyred 
place  a  memorial  for  the  eyes  of  coming  generations:  a 
ruined  church;  a  burned  chateau;  the  skeleton  of  an 
hotel  de  villey  or  a  wrecked  factory;  a  mute  appeal  to  all 
the  world:  "This  was  war,  as  the  Germans  made  it. 
In  the  midst  of  peace,  Remember ! " 


238  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

Beneath  my  interest  in  the  talk  ran  an  undercurrent 
of  my  own  private  thought,  which  was  not  of  the  future, 
but  of  the  past.  I'd  begun  to  wonder  why  I  had  been 
afraid  of  Jack  Curtis.  Instead  of  dreading  words  with 
him  alone,  I  wished  for  them  now. 

After  dinner  I  had  but  a  few  minutes  to  wait.  When 
I'd  refused  coffee,  he,  too,  refused,  and  made  an  excuse  to 
show  me  a  room  of  which  the  correspondents  were  fond— 
a  room  full  of  old  trophies  of  the  forest  hunt. 

"Did  you  notice  at  dinner  how  I  kept  trying  to  get  a 
good  look  at  your  left  hand?  "  Curtis  asked. 

"No,"  I  answered,  "I  didn't  notice  that." 

"I'm  glad.  I  was  scared  you'd  think  me  cheeky. 
Yet  I  couldn't  resist.  I  wanted  to  see  whether  Jim  had 
given  you  the  ring." 

"The  ring?  "I  echoed. 

"The  ring  of  our  bet,  the  year  before  the  war:  the  bet 
you  knew  about,  that  kept  you  two  apart  till  Jim  came 
over  to  France  this  second  time." 

"Yes— I  knew  about  the  bet,"  I  said,  "but  not  the 
ring.  I — I  haven't  an  engagement  ring." 

"Queer!"  Jack  Curtis  puzzled  out  aloud.  "It  was  a 
race  between  Jim  and  me  which  should  get  that  ring  at  an 
antique  shop,  when  we  both  heard  of  its  history.  He 
could  afford  to  bid  higher,  so  he  secured  it.  Not  that  he 
was  selfish!  But  he  said  he  wanted  the  ring  in  case  he 
met  his  ideal  and  got  engaged  to  her.  If  he'd  lost  the 
bet  the  ring  would  have  been  mine.  If  he  didn't  give  it 
to  you,  I  wonder  what's  become  of  the  thing?  Perhaps 
his  mother  knows.  Did  she  ever  speak  to  you  about 
Jim  bringing  home  a  quaint  old  ring  from  France,  that 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  239 

time  after  his  fever — a  ring  supposed  to  have  belonged 
to  the  most  beautiful  woman  of  her  day,  the  Italian  Coun 
tess  Castiglione,  whom  Louis  Napoleon  loved?  " 

"No,"  I  said.  "He  can't  have  given  the  ring  to  his 
mother,  or  she  would  have  told  me  about  it,  I'm  sure. 
She's  always  talking  of  him." 

"Perhaps  it  was  stolen  or  lost,"  Curtis  reflected.  "Yet 
I  don't  feel  as  if  that  had  happened,  somehow!  I  trust 
my  feelings  a  good  deal — especially  since  this  war,  that's 
made  us  all  a  bit  psychic — don't  you?  " 

"I  have  too  many  feelings  to  trust  half  of  them!"  I 
tried  to  laugh. 

"Have  you  ever  had  one,  I  wonder,  like  mine,  about 
Jim  ?  Dare  I  speak  to  you  of  this  ? ' ' 

"Why  not?" 

"Well — I  wouldn't  dare  to  his  mother.  Or  even  to 
the  old  man." 

"  You  must  speak  now,  please,  Mr.  Curtis,  to  me ! " 

"It's  this;  have  you  ever  had  the  feeling  that  Jim  may 
be  alive?" 

We  were  standing.  I  caught  at  the  back  of  a  chair. 
Things  whirled  for  an  instant.  Then  I  gathered  my 
wits  together.  "I  haven't  let  myself  feel  it,"  I  said. 
"And  yet,  in  a  way,  I  always  feel  it.  I  mean,  I  seem  to 
feel — his  thoughts  round  us.  But  that's  because  we  speak 
and  think  of  him  almost  every  moment  of  the  day,  his 
father  and  mother  and  I.  There  can  be  no  doubt — 
can  there?" 

"Others  have  come  back  from  the  dead  since  this  war. 
Why  not  Jim  Beckett?  " 

"They  said  they  had — found  his  body." 


240  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

"Oh,  they  said  I  Germans  say  a  lot  of  things.  But 
for  the  Lord's  sake,  Miss  O'Malley,  don't  let's  upset  those 
poor  old  people  with  any  such  hope.  I've  only  my  feel 
ing — and  other  people's  stories  of  escape — to  go  upon. 
I  spoke  to  you,  because  I  guess  you've  got  a  strong  soul, 
and  can  stand  shocks.  Besides,  you  told  me  I  must 
speak.  I  had  to  obey." 

"Thank  you  for  obeying,*'  I  said.  And  just  then 
someone  came  into  the  room. 

Now,  Padre,  I  have  told  you  the  great  thing.  What 
does  it  matter  what  happens  to  me,  if  only  Jack  Curtis's 
** feeling"  comes  true? 


CHAPTER  XXin 

riS  two  days  since  I  wrote,  Padre;  and  I  have  come 
jack  to  Compiegne  from  a  world  of  unnatural  silence 
.ind  desolation.     Day  before  yesterday  it  was  Roye 
and  Nesle;  the  Chateau  of  Ham;  Jussy,  Chauny  and 
Prince  Eitel  Friedrich's  pavilion.    To-morrow  we  hope  to 
start  for  Soissons. 

Yesterday  we  rested,  because  Mother  Beckett  had  a 
shocking  headache.  (Oh,  it  was  pathetic  and  funny,  too, 
what  she  said  when  we  slipped  back  into  Compiegne  at 
night!  "Isn't  it  a  comfort,  Molly,  to  see  a  place  again 
where  there  are  whole  houses?")  After  Soissons  we  shall 
return  to  Compiegne  and  then  go  to  Amiens  with  several 
of  the  war  correspondents,  who  have  their  own  car. 
Women  aren't  allowed,  as  a  rule,  to  see  anything  of  the 
British  front,  but  it's  just  possible  that  Father  Beckett 
can  get  permission  for  his  wife  to  venture  within  gazing 
distance.  Of  course,  she  can't — or  thinks  she  can't — stir 
without  me ! 

We  took  still  another  road  to  Noyon  (one  must  pass 
through  Noyon  going  toward  the  front,  if  one  keeps 
Compiegne  for  one's  headquarters)  and  the  slaughter  of 
trees  was  the  wickedest  we'd  seen:  a  long  avenue  of  kind 
giants  murdered,  and  orchards  on  both  sides  of  it.  The 
Germans,  it  seems,  had  circular  saws,  worked  by  motors, 
on  purpose  to  destroy  the  large  trees  in  a  hurry.  They 


242  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

didn't  protect  their  retreat  by  barring  the  road  with  the 
felled  trunks.  They  left  most  of  the  martyrs  standing, 
their  trunks  so  nearly  sawed  through  that  a  wind  would 
have  blown  them  down.  The  pursuing  armies  had  to 
finish  the  destruction  to  protect  themselves.  Farms 
were  exterminated  all  along  the  way;  and  little  hamlets — 
nameless  for  us — were  heaps  of  blackened  brick  and  stone, 
mercifully  strewn  with  flowers  like  old  altars  to  an  un- 
forgotten  god. 

Roye  was  the  first  big  place  on  our  road.  It  used  to  be 
rich,  and  its  4,000  inhabitants  traded  in  grain  and  sugar. 
How  the  very  name  brought  back  our  last  spring  joy  in 
reading  news  of  the  recapture!  "Important  Victory. 
Roye  Retaken."  It  was  grandly  impressive  in  ruin, 
especially  the  old  church  of  St.  Pierre,  whose  immense, 
graceful  windows  used  to  be  jewelled  with  ancient  glass 
that  people  came  from  far  away  to  see. 

Jim  had  written  his  mother  about  that  glass,  conse 
quently  she  would  get  out  of  the  car  to  climb  (with  my  help 
and  her  husband's)  over  a  pile  of  fallen  stones  like  a  pet 
rified  cataract,  which  leads  painfully  up  to  the  desecrated 
and  pillaged  high  altar.  I  nearly  sprained  my  ankle  in 
getting  to  one  of  the  windows,  under  which  my  eyes  had 
caught  the  glint  of  a  small,  sparkling  thing :  but  I  had  my 
reward,  for  the  sparkling  thing  was  a  lovely  bit  of  sapphire- 
blue  glass  from  the  robe  of  some  saint,  and  the  little  lady 
was  grateful  for  the  gift  as  if  it  had  been  a  real  jewel — 
indeed,  more  grateful.  "I'll  keep  it  with  my  souvenirs 
of  Jim,"  she  said,  "for  his  eyes  have  looked  on  it:  and  it's 
just  the  colour  of  yours  which  he  loved.  He'd  be  pleased 
that  you  found  it  for  me."  (Ah,  if  she  knew!  I  can't 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  243 

help  praying  that  she  never  may  know,  though  such 
prayers  from  me  are  almost  sacrilege.) 

A  little  farther  on — as  the  motor,  not  the  crow,  flies — 
we  came  to  Nesle,  or  what  once  was  Nesle.  The  ghost 
of  the  twelfth-century  church  looms  hi  skeleton  form 
above  one  more  Pompeii  among  the  many  forced  by  the 
Germans  upon  France:  but  save  for  that  towering  relic 
of  the  past  there's  little  left  of  this  brave  town  of  the 
Somme,  which  was  historic  before  the  thirteenth  cen 
tury.  It  gave  its  name  to  a  famous  fighting  family  of 
feudal  days:  and  through  the  last  heiress  of  the  line — a 
beauty  and  a  "catch" — a  certain  Seigneur  de  Nesle 
became  Regent  of  France,  in  the  second  Crusade  of 
Louis  XII— "Saint  Louis."  Later  ladies  of  the  line 
became  dear  friends  of  another  Louis,  fifteenth  of  the  name, 
who  was  never  called  saint.  Not  far  from  Nesle,  Henry 
V  of  England  crossed  the  Somme  and  won  the  Battle  of 
Agincourt.  But  now,  the  greatest  dramatic  interest  is 
concentrated  in  the  cemetery ! 

We  had  heard  of  it  at  Compiegne  and  the  wild  things 
that  had  happened  there:  so  after  a  look  at  the  ruined 
church,  and  the  once  charming  Place,  we  went  straight 
to  the  town  burial-place,  and  our  unofficial  guide  was  the 
oldest  man  I  ever  saw.  He  had  lurked  rather  than 
lived,  through  months  of  German  barbarity  at  Nesle, 
guarding  a  bag  of  money  he'd  hidden  underground.  An 
officer  from  Noyon  was  with  us;  but  he  had  knowledge 
of  the  ancient  man — a  great  character — ai.d  bade  him 
tell  us  the  tale  of  the  graveyard.  He  obeyed  with 
unction  and  with  gestures  like  lightning  as  it  flashes 
across  a  night  sky.  The  looks  his  old  eyes  darted 


244  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

• 

forth  as  he  talked  might  have  struck  a  live  German 
dead. 

"The  animals !  What  do  you  think  they  did  when  they 
were  masters  here?"  he  snarled.  "Ah,  you  do  not  know 
the  Boches  as  we  learned  to  know  them,  so  you  would 
never  guess.  They  opened  our  tombs,  the  vaults  of 
distinguished  families  of  France.  They  broke  the  coffins 
and  stole  the  rings  from  skeleton  fingers.  They  left  the 
bones  of  our  ancestors,  and  of  our  friends  whose  living 
faces  we  could  remember,  scattered  over  the  ground,  as 
if  to  feed  the  dogs.  In  our  empty  coffins  they  placed 
their  own  dead.  On  the  stone  or  marble  of  monuments 
they  cut  away  the  names  of  those  whose  sacred  sleep 
they  had  disturbed.  Instead,  they  inscribed  the  dis 
gusting  names  of  their  Boche  generals  and  colonels. 
Where  they  could  not  change  the  inscriptions  they  de 
stroyed  the  tombstones  and  set  up  others.  You  will 
see  them  now.  But  wait — you  have  not  heard  all  yet. 
Far  from  that!  When  the  Tommies  came  to  Nesle — 
your  English  Tommies — they  did  not  like  what  the  Boches 
had^done  to  our  cemetery.  They  said  things — strong 
things !  And  while  they  were  hot  with  anger  they  knocked 
the  hideous  new  monuments  about.  They  could  not 
bear  to  see  them  mark  the  stolen  graves.  The  little  crosses 
that  showed  where  simple  soldiers  lay,  those  they  did  not 
touch.  It  was  only  the  officers'  tombs  they  spoiled.  I 
will  show  you  what  they  did." 

We  let  him  hobble  ahead  of  us  into  the  graveyard.  He 
led  us  past  the  long  rows  of  low  wooden  crosses  with 
German  names  on  them,  the  crosses  with  British 
names — (good,  sturdy  British  names:  "Hardy," 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  245 

"Kemp,"  "Logan,"  "Wilding,"  planted  among  flowers 
of  France) — and  paused  in  the  aristocratic  corner  of  the 
city  of  the  dead.  Once,  this  had  been  the  last  earthly 
resting-place  of  old  French  families,  or  of  the  rich  whose 
relatives  could  afford  expensive  monuments.  But  the 
war  had  changed  all  that.  German  names  had  replaced 
the  ancient  French  ones  on  the  vaults,  as  German  corpses 
had  replaced  French  bodies  in  the  coffins.  Stone  and 
marble  monuments  had  been  recarved,  or  new  ones 
raised.  There  were  roughly  cut  figures  of  German  colonels 
and  majors  and  captains.  This  rearrangement  was  what 
the  "Tommies"  had  "not  liked."  They  liked  it  so  little 
that  they  chopped  off  stone  noses  and  faces;  they  threw 
red  ink,  brighter  than  blood,  over  carved  German  uni 
forms,  and  neatly  chipped  away  the  counterfeit  present 
ment  of  iron  crosses.  In  some  cases,  also,  they  purified 
the  vaults  of  German  bones  and  gave  back  in  exchange 
such  French  ones  as  they  found  scattered.  They  wrote  in 
large  letters  on  tombstones,  "Bock  no  6on,"  and  other 
illiterate  comments  unflattering  to  the  dead  usurpers; 
all  of  which,  our  old  man  explained,  mightily  endeared  the 
Atkinses  to  the  returning  inhabitants  of  Nesle. 

"Those  brave  Tommies  are  gone  now,"  he  sighed,  "but 
they  left  their  dead  in  our  care.  You  see  those  flowers  on 
their  graves?  It  is  we  who  put  them  there,  and  the 
children  tend  them  every  day.  If  you  come  back  next 
year,  it  will  be  the  same.  We  shall  not  forget." 

"A  great  statesman  paid  us  a  visit  not  long  after  Nesle 
was  liberated,"  our  officer  guide  took  up  the  story.  "He 
had  heard  what  the  Tommies  did,  and  he  was  not  quite 
sure  if  they  were  justified.  'After  all,  German  or 


246  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

not  German,  a  tomb  is  a  tomb,  and  the  dead  are  dead,' 
he  argued.  But  when  he  saw  the  cemetery  of  another 
place  not  far  away,  where  the  bodies  of  Frenchmen — 
yes,  and  women  and  little  babies! — still  lay  where  Ger 
mans  had  thrown  them  in  stealing  their  graves,  the  grand 
old  man's  blood  rushed  to  his  head.  He  was  no  longer 
uncertain  if  the  Tommies  were  right.  He  was  certain 
they  had  done  well;  and  in  his  red  rage  he,  with  his  own 
hands,  tore  down  thirty  of  the  lying  tombstones." 

Oh,  the  silence  of  these  dead  towns  that  the  Germans 
have  killed  with  bombs  and  burning!  You  know  what  it 
is  like,  Padre,  because  you  have  passed  behind  the  veil 
and  have  knowledge  beyond  our  dreaming:  but  to  me 
it  is  a  triste  revelation.  I  never  realized~before  what  the 
words  "dead  silence"  could  mean.  It  is  a  silence  you 
hear.  It  cries  out  as  the  loudest  voice  could  not  cry. 
It  makes  you  listen — listen  for  the  pleasant,  homely 
sounds  you've  always  associated  with  human  habitations : 
the  laughter  of  girls,  the  shouts  of  schoolboys,  the  friendly 
barking  of  dogs.  But  you  listen  in  vain.  You  wonder 
if  you  are  deaf — if  other  people  are  hearing  what  you 
cannot  hear :  and  then  you  see  on  each  face  the  same  blank, 
listening  look  that  must  be  on  your  own.  I  think  a 
night  at  Chauny,  or  Jussy,  might  drive  a  weak  woman 
mad.  But — I  haven't  come  to  Chauny  or  Jussy  yet! 
After  Nesle  we  arrived  at  Ham,  with  its  canal  and  its 
green,  surrounding  marshes. 

Ham  has  ceased  to  be  silent.  There  are  some  houses 
left,  and  to  those  houses  people  have  come  back.  Shops 
have  reopened,  as  at  Noyon,  where  the  French  Govern 
ment  has  advanced  money  to  the  business  men.  We 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  247 

drove  into  the  town  of  Ham  (what  is  left  of  it!)  just  as 
we  were  hating  ourselves  for  being  hungry.  It  is  sordid 
and  dreadful  to  be  hungry  in  the  midst  of  one's  rage  and 
grief  and  pity — to  want  to  eat  in  a  place  like  Ham,  where 
one  should  wish  to  absorb  nothing  but  history;  yet  our 
officer  guide,  who  has  helped  make  a  good  deal  of  history 
since  1914,  seemed  to  think  lunching  quite  as  important 
as  sightseeing.  In  a  somewhat  battered  square,  busy 
with  reopening  shops  (some  of  them  most  quaint  shops, 
with  false  hair  as  a  favourite  display!)  was  a  hotel.  The 
Germans  had  lived  in  it  for  months.  They  had  bullied 
the  very  old,  very  vital  landlady  who  welcomed  us.  Their 
boots  had  worn  holes  in  the  stair  carpet,  going  up  and 
down  in  a  goose-step.  Their  elbows  had  polished  the 
long  table  in  the  dining  room,  and — oh,  horror! — their 
mouths  had  drunk  beer  from  glasses  in  which  the  good 
wine  of  France  was  offered  to  us ! 

"Ah,  but  I  have  scrubbed  the  goblets  since  with  a 
fortune's  worth  of  soda,"  the  woman  volubly  explained. 
"They  are  purified.  If  I  could  wash  away  as  easily  the 
memories  behind  iny  eyes  and  in  my  ears!  Of  them 
I  cannot  get  rid.  Whenever  I  see  an  automobile,  yes, 
even  the  most  innocent  automobile,  I  live  again  through 
a  certain  scene !  We  had  here  at  Ham  an  invalid  woman, 
whose  husband  the  Boches  took  out  and  shot.  When 
she  heard  the  news,  she  threw  herself  under  one  of  their 
military  cars  and  was  killed.  If  a  young  girl  passes  my 
windows  (alas,  it  is  seldom!  the  Germans  know  why) 
I  see  once  more  a  procession  of  girls  lined  up  to  send  into 
slavery.  God  knows  where  they  are  now,  those  children! 
All  we  know  is,  that  in  this  country  there  is  not  a  girl 


248  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

! 

left  of  an  age  between  twelve  and  twenty,  unless  she  was 

hidden  or  disguised  when  the  Boches  took  their  toll.  If 
I  hear  a  sound  of  bells,  I  see  our  people  being  herded  into 
church — our  old,  old  church,  with  its  proud  monuments! 
— so  their  houses  might  be  burned  before  the  Germans 
had  to  run.  They  stayed  in  the  church  for  days  and 
nights,  waiting  for  the  chateau  to  be  blown  up.  What  a 
suspense !  No  one  knew  if  the  great  shock,  when  it  came, 
might  not  kill  everyone ! " 

As  she  exploded  reminiscences,  the  old  lady  fed  us 
with  ham  and  omelette  salted  with  tears.  We  had  to 
eat,  or  hurt  her  feelings,  but  it  was  as  if  we  swallowed 
the  poor  creature's  emotion  with  our  food,  and  the  effect 
within  was  dynamic.  I  never  had  such  a  volcanic  meal! 
Our  French  officer  was  the  only  calm  one  among  us,  but 
— he  had  been  stationed  in  this  liberated  region  for  months. 
It's  an  old  story  for  him. 

After  luncheon  we  staggered  away  to  see  the  great 
sight  of  Ham,  the  fortress-chateau  which  has  given  it 
history  and  fame  for  centuries.  The  Germans  blew  up 
the  citadel  out  of  sheer  spite,  as  the  vast  pink  pile  long 
ago  ceased  to  be  of  military  value.  They  wished  to  show 
their  power  by  ruining  the  future  of  the  town,  which 
lived  on  its  monument  historique:  but  (as  often  happens 
with  their  "frightfulness")  that  object  was  just  the  one 
they  failed  in.  I  can't  believe  that  the  castle  of  Ham 
was  as  striking  in  its  untouched  magnificence  as  now  in 
the  rose-red  splendour  of  its  ruin ! 

To  be  sure,  the  guardians  can  never  again  show  pre 
cisely  where  Joan  of  Arc  was  imprisoned,  or  the  rooms 
where  Louis  Napoleon  lived  through  his  six  years  of 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  249 

captivity,  or  the  little  garden  he  used  to  cultivate,  or  the 
way  he  passed  to  escape  over  the  drawbridge,  dressed  as 
a  mason,  with  a  plank  on  his  shoulder.  But  the  glorious 
old  tower  or  donjon  still  stands,  one  hundred  feet  high 
and  one  hundred  feet  wide.  German  gunpowder  was  too 
weak  to  bring  it  down,  and  so  perhaps  the  prophecy  of 
the  Comte  de  St.  Pol,  builder  of  the  fortress,  may  be 
fulfilled — that  while  France  stands,  the  tower  of  Hani's 
citadel  will  stand.  Thousands  more  pilgrims  will  come 
in  a  year,  after  the  war,  to  see  what  the  Germans  did 
and  what  they  failed  to  do,  than  ever  came  in  the  mild, 
prosperous  days  before  1914,  when  Ham's  best  history 
was  old.  They  will  come  and  gaze  at  the  massive  bulk — 
red  always  as  if  reflecting  sunset  light — looming  against 
the  blue;  they  will  peer  down  into  dusky  dungeons  under 
ground:  and  the  new  guardian  (a  mutilated  soldier  he'll 
be,  perhaps,  decorated  with  the  croix  de  guerre)  will 
tell  them  about  the  girl  of  Ham  who  lured  a  German 
officer  to  a  death-trap  in  a  secret  oubliette,  "where  'tis 
said  his  body  lies  to-day."  Then  they  will  stand  under 
the  celebrated  old  tree  in  the  courtyard,  unhurt  by  the 
explosion,  and  take  photographs  of  the  chateau  the  Ger 
mans  have  unwittingly  made  more  beautiful  than  be 
fore. 

"If on  mieux"  was  the  motto  St.  Pol  carved  over  the 
gateway;  "Our  worst"  is  the  taunt  the  Germans  have  flung. 
But  the  combination  of  that  best  and  worst  is  glorious  to 
the  eye. 

From  Ham  we  spun  on  to  Jussy,  along  the  new  white 
road  which  is  so  amazing  when  one  thinks  that  every 
yard  of  it  had  to  be  created  out  of  chaos  a  few  months 


250  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

ago.  (They  say  that  some  sort  of  surface  was  given  for 
the  army  to  pass  over  in  three  days'  work !)  At  Jussy  we 
came  close  to  the  real  front — closer  than  we've  been  yet, 
except  when  we  went  to  the  American  trenches.  The 
first  line  was  only  three  miles  away,  and  the  place  is  under 
bombardment,  but  this  was  what  our  guide  called  a 
" quiet  day,"  so  there  was  only  an  occasional  mumble  and 
boom.  The  town  was  destroyed,  wiped  almost  out 
of  existence,  save  for  heaps  of  rubble  which  might  have 
been  houses  or  hills.  But  there  were  things  to  be  seen 
which  would  have  made  Jussy  worth  a  long  journey.  It 
had  been  a  prosperous  place,  with  one  of  the  biggest  sugar 
refineries  in  France,  and  the  wrecked  usine  was  as  terrible 
and  thrilling  as  the  moon  seen  through  the  biggest  tele 
scope  in  the  world. 

Not  that  it  looked  like  the  moon.  It  looked  more  like 
a  futurist  sketch,  in  red  and  brown,  of  the  heart  of  a 
cyclone;  or  of  the  inside  of  a  submarine  that  has  rammed 
a  skeleton  ship  on  the  stocks.  But  the  sight  gave  me  the 
same  kind  of  icy  shock  I  had  when  I  first  saw  the  moon's 
ravaged  face  through  a  huge  telescope.  You  took  me, 
Padre,  so  you'll  remember. 

If  you  came  to  Jussy,  and  didn't  know  about  the  war, 
you'd  think  you  had  stumbled  into  hell — or  else  that  you 
were  having  a  nightmare  and  couldn't  wake  up.  I  shall 
never  forget  a  brobdingnagian  boiler  as  big  as  a  battle 
tank,  that  had  reared  itself  on  its  hind-legs  to  peer  through 
a  cheval  do  frise  of  writhing  girders — tortured  girders  like 
a  vast  wilderness  of  immense  thorn  bushes  in  a  hopeless 
tangle,  or  a  pit  of  bloodstained  snakes.  The  walls  of  the 
usine  have  simply  melted,  and  it's  hard  to  realize  that  it 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  251 

as  a  building,  put  up  by  human  hands  for  human  uses,  ever 
existed.  There  is  a  new  Jussy,  though,  created  since  the 
German  retreat;  and  seeing  it,  you  couldn't  help  know 
ing  that  there  was  a  war!  The  whole  landscape  is  full 
of  cannon,  big  and  little  and  middle-sized.  Queer  mush 
room  buildings  have  sprung  up,  for  officers'  and  soldiers' 
barracks  and  canteens.  Narrow  plank  walks  built  high 
above  mud -level — "duck  boards,"  I  think  they're  called — 
lead  to  the  corrugated  iron,  tin,  and  wooden  huts.  There 
are  aerodromes  and  aerodromes  like  a  vast  circus  encamp 
ment,  where  there  are  not  cannon;  and  the  greenish  can 
vas  roofs  give  the  only  bit  of  colour,  as  far  as  the  eye  can. 
see — unless  one  counts  the  soldiers'  uniforms.  All  the 
rest  is  gray  as  the  desert  before  a  dust-storm.  Even 
the  sky,  which  had  been  blue  and  bright,  was  gray  over 
Jussy,  and  the  grayest  of  gray  things  were  the  immense 
"saucisses" — three  or  four  of  them — hanging  low  under 
the  clouds  like  advertisements  of  titanic  potatoes,  haugh 
tiest  of  war-time  vegetables. 

Dierdre  O'Farrell  inadvertently  called  the  big  bulks 
"saucissons,"  which  amused  our  officer  guide  so  much 
that  he  laughed  to  tears.  The  rest  of  us  were  able  to 
raise  only  a  faint  smile,  and  we  felt  his  disappointment  at 
our  lack  of  humour. 

"Ah,  but  it  is  most  funny!"  he  said.  "I  will  tell 
everyone.  In  future  they  shall  for  us  be  ' saucissons9  for 
ever.  I  suppose  it  is  not  so  funny  for  you,  because  the 
sight  of  these  dead  towns  has  made  you  sad.  I  am  almost 
afraid  to  take  you  on  to  Chauny.  You  will  be  much 
sadder  there.  Chauny  is  the  sight  most  pitiful  of  all. 
Would  you  perhaps  wish  to  avoid  it?  " 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

"What  about  you,  Mother?"  Father  Beckett  wanted 
to  know. 

But  Mother  had  no  wish  to  avoid  Chauny.  She  was  not 
able  to  believe  that  anything  could  be  sadder  than  Roye, 
or  Nesle,  or  Ham,  or  more  grim  than  Jussy. 

"He  doesn't  want  to  take  us  to  Chauny,"  Brian  whis 
pered  to  me.  We  were  all  grouped  together  near  the 
cars,  with  Sirius,  a  quiet,  happy  dog.  "He's  trying  to 
think  up  a  new  excuse  to  get  out  of  it." 

I  glanced  at  our  guide.  It  was  like  Brian  to  have 
guessed  what  we  hadn't  seen!  Now  I  was  on  the  alert, 
the  clear-cut  French  face  did  look  nonplussed;  and  a 
nervous  brown  hand  was  tugging  at  a  smart  black  mous 
tache. 

"  Is  there  any  reason  why  you  think  it  would  be  better 
for  us  not  to  go  there?  "  I  decided  to  ask  frankly. 

"It's  getting  rather  late,"  he  suggested,  in  his  precise 
English.  "You  have  also  the  Pavilion  of  Prince  Eitel 
Fritz  before  you.  If  it  grows  too  dark,  you  cannot  see 
St.  Quentin  well,  in  the  distance,  and  the  glasses  will  be  of 
no  use  for  Soissons." 

"But  we're  going  to  Soissons  day  after  to-morrow!'* 
said  Father  Beckett. 

"And  there'll  be  a  moon  presently,"  added  Dierdre. 
She  had  heard  of  the  ruined  convent  at  Chauny  and  was 
determined  not  to  miss  it. 

"Yes,  there'll  be  a  moon,"  reluctantly  admitted  Mon 
sieur  le  Lieutenant. 

" Is  there  still  another  reason?  "  I  tried  to  help  him. 

"Well,  yes,  there  is  one,  Mademoiselle,"  he  blurted 
out.  "I  had  meant  not  to  mention  it.  But  perhaps  it 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  253 

is  best  to  tell,  and  then  you  may  all  choose  whether  you 
go  to  Chauny  or  not.  There  is  a  certain  risk  at  this  time 
of  day,  or  a  little  later.  You  know  we  are  close  to  the 
front  here,  and  enemy  aeroplanes  fly  nearly  every  after 
noon  over  Chauny  toward  dusk.  They  hope  to  catch  some 
important  personage,  and  they  come  expressly  to  'spot* 
automobiles.  The  road  through  the  ruined  town  is 
white  and  new,  and  the  gray  military  cars  in  which  we 
bring  visitors  to  the  front  stand  out  clearly,  especially 
as  twilight  falls.  I'm  afraid  we  have  lingered  too  long  in 
some  of  these  places.  If  we  were  a  party  of  men,  I 
should  say  nothing,  but  with  three  ladies " 

"I  can  answer  for  all  three,  Monsieur,"  said  Mother 
Beckett,  with  a  pathetically  defiant  tilt  of  her  small  chin. 

"My  son,  you  know,  was  a  soldier.  We  have  come  to 
this  part  of  the  world  to  see  what  we  can  do  for  the  people 
in  honour  of  his  memory.  So  we  mustn't  leave  Chauny 
out." 

"Madame,  there  are  no  people  there,  for  there  are  no 
houses.  There  are  but  a  few  soldiers  with  an  anti-air 
craft  gun." 

"We  must  see  what  can  be  done  about  building  up 
some  of  the  houses  so  the  people  can  come  back,"  persisted 
the  old  lady,  with  that  gentle  obstinacy  of  hers. 

The  French  officer  made  no  more  objections;  and  know 
ing  his  wife,  I  suppose  Father  Beckett  felt  it  useless  to  offer 
any.  We  started  at  once  for  Chauny:  in  fact,  we  flew 
along  the  road  almost  as  fast — it  seemed — as  enemy 
aeroplanes  could  fly  along  the  sky  if  they  pursued.  But 
we  had  a  long  respite  still  before  twilight. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

O[JR  guide  was  right.  Chauny  was  sadder  than  the 
rest,  because  there  had  been  more  of  beauty  to 
ruin.  And  it  was  ruined  cruelly,  completely! 
Even  Gerbeviller,  in  Lorraine,  had  been  less  sad  than 
this — less  sad  because  of  Sceur  Julie,  and  the  quarter 
on  the  hill  which  her  devotion  saved;  less  sad,  because  of 
the  American  Red  Cross  reconstruction  centre,  for  the 
fruit  trees.  Here  there  had  been  no  Sceur  Julie,  no  re 
construction  centre  yet.  The  Germans,  when  they  knew 
they  had  to  go,  gave  three  weeks  to  their  wrecking  work. 
They  sent  off,  neatly  packed,  all  that  was  worth  sending 
to  Germany.  They  measured  the  cellars  to  see  what 
quantity  of  explosives  would  be  needed  to  blow  up  the 
houses.  Then  they  blew  them  up,  making  their  quarters 
meanwhile  at  a  safe  distance,  in  the  convent.  As  for  that 
convent — you  will  see  what  happened  there  when  the 
Boches  had  no  further  use  for  it ! 

In  happy  days  before  the  war,  whose  joys  we  took  com 
fortably  for  granted,  Chauny  had  several  chateaux  of  beauty 
and  charm.  It  had  pretty  houses  and  lots  of  fine  shops  and 
a  park.  It  was  proud  of  its  mairie  and  church  and  great 
usine  (now  a  sight  of  horror),  and  the  newer  parts  of  the 
town  did  honour  to  their  architects.  But — Chauny  was 
on  the  direct  road  between  Cologne  and  Paris.  Nobody 
thought  much  about  this  fact  then,  except  that  it  helped 

354 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  255 

travel  and  so  was  good  for  the  country.  It  is  only  now  that 
one  knows  what  a  price  Chauny  paid  for  the  advantage. 
Instead  of  a  beautiful  town  there  remains  a  heap  of  cinders, 
with  here  and  there  a  wrecked  fagade  of  pitiful  grace  or 
broken  dignity  to  tell  where  stood  the  proudest  buildings. 

The  sky  was  empty  of  enemy  'planes;  but  our  guide 
hurried  us  through  the  town,  where  the  new  road  shone 
white  in  contrast  with  our  cars;  and  having  hidden  the 
autos  under  a  group  of  trees  outside,  led  us  on  foot  toward 
the  convent.  The  approach  was  exquisite:  a  long,  long 
avenue  of  architectural  elms,  arbour-like  in  shade,  once 
the  favourite  evening  promenade  of  Chauny.  That 
tunnel  of  emerald  and  gold  would  have  been  an  interlude 
of  peace  between  two  tragedies — tragedy  of  the  town, 
tragedy  of  the  convent — if  the  ground  hadn't  been  strewn 
with  torn  papers,  like  leaves  scattered  by  the  wind:  official 
records  flung  out  of  strong  boxes  by  ruthless  German 
hands,  poor  remnants  no  longer  of  value,  and  saved  from 
destruction  only  by  the  kindly  trees,  friends  of  happy 
memories.  "The  Boches  didn't  take  time  to  spoil  this 
avenue,"  said  our  officer.  "They  liked  it  while  they  lived 
in  the  convent;  and  they  left  in  a  hurry." 

Just  beyond  the  avenue  lies  the  convent  garden;  and 
though  it  is  autumn,  when  we  stepped  into  that  garden 
we  stepped  into  an  oasis  of  old-fashioned,  fragrant  flowers, 
guarded  by  delicate  trees,  gentle  as  the  vanished  Sisters 
and  their  flock  of  young  girl  pupils;  sweet,  small  trees, 
bending  low  as  if  to  shield  the  garden's  breast  from  harm. 

I  wish  when  Chauny  is  rebuilt  this  convent  might  be 
left  as  a  monument  historique,  for,  ringed  by  its  perfumed 
pleasance,  it  is  a  glimpse  of  "fairylands  forlorn." 


256  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

One  half  believes  there  must  have  been  some  fairy  charm 
at  work  which  kept  the  fire-breathing  German  dragon 
from  laying  this  garden  waste  when  he  was  forced  out 
of  his  stolen  lair  in  the  convent!  Little  remains  of  the 
house,  and  in  the  rubbish  heap  of  fallen  walls  and  beams 
and  plaster,  narrow  iron  bedsteads,  where  nuns  slept  or 
young  girls  dreamed,  perch  timidly  among  stones  and 
blackened  bricks.  But  in  the  garden  all  is  flowery  peace : 
and  the  chapel,  though  ruined,  is  a  strange  vision  of  beauty 
framed  in  horror. 

Not  that  the  Germans  were  merciful  there.  They 
burned  and  blew  up  all  that  would  burn  or  blow  up.  The 
roof  fell,  and  heaped  the  floor  with  wreckage;  but  out  of 
that  wreckage,  as  out  of  a  troubled  sea,  rise  two  figures: 
St.  Joseph,  and  an  almost  life-size,  painted  statue  of  the 
Virgin.  There  the  two  stand  firmly  on  their  pedestals, 
their  faces  raised  to  God's  roof  of  blue,  which  never  fails. 
Because  their  eyes  are  lifted,  they  do  not  see  the  flotsam 
and  jetsam  of  shattered  stained  glass,  burnt  woodwork, 
smashed  benches,  broken  picture-frames  and  torn,  rain- 
blurred  portraits  of  lesser  saints.  They  seem  to  think 
only  of  heaven. 

Though  I'm  not  a  Catholic,  the  chapel  gave  me  such  a 
sense  of  sacredness  and  benediction  that  I  felt  I  must  be 
there  alone,  if  only  for  a  moment.  So  when  our  officer  led 
the  others  out  I  stayed  behind.  A  clear  ray  of  late 
sunshine  slanted  through  a  broken  window  set  high  in  a 
side  wall,  to  stream  full  upon  the  face  of  the  Virgin.  Some 
one  had  crowned  her  with  a  wreath  of  fresh  flowers,  and 
had  thrust  a  few  white  roses  under  the  folded  hands  which 
seemed  to  clasp  them  lovingly,  with  a  prayer  for  the  peace 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  £57 

of  the  world.  The  dazzling  radiance  brought  face 
and  figure  to  life;  and  it  was  as  if  a  living  woman  had 
taken  the  statue's  place  on  the  pedestal.  The  effect  was  so 
startling  that,  if  I  were  a  Catholic,  I  might  have  believed 
in  a  miracle.  Protestant  as  I  am,  I  had  the  impulse  to 
pray:  but — (I  don't  know,  Padre,  if  I  have  ever  told  you 
this) — I've  not  dared  to  pray  properly  since  I  first  stole  the 
Becketts'  love  for  Brian  and  me.  I've  not  dared,  though 
never  in  nay  life  have  I  so  needed  and  longed  for  prayer. 

This  time  I  couldn't  resist,  unworthy  as  I  am.  The 
smile  of  peace  and  pardon  on  the  statue's  illumined  face 
seemed  to  make  all  sin  forgivable  in  this  haunt  of  holy 
dreams.  "God  forgive  me,  and  show  me  how  to  atone," 
I  sent  my  plea  skyward.  Suddenly  the  conviction  came 
that  I  should  be  shown  a  way  of  atonement,  though  it 
might  be  hard.  I  felt  lighter  of  heart,  and  went  on  to 
pray  that  Jack  Curtis's  hope  might  be  justified:  that,  no 
matter  what  happened  to  me,  or  even  to  Brian,  Jim 
Beckett  might  be  alive,  in  this  world,  and  come  back 
safely  to  his  parents. 

While  I  prayed,  a  sound  disturbed  the  deep  silence.  It 
was  a  far-away  sound,  but  quickly  it  grew  louder  and  drew 
nearer:  at  first  a  buzzing  as  of  all  the  bees  in  France 
mobilized  in  a  bee-barrage.  Then  the  buzzing  became  a 
roar.  I  knew  directly  what  it  was :  enemy  aeroplanes. 

I  could  not  see  them  yet,  but  they  must  be  close.  If 
they  were  flying  very  low,  to  search  Chauny  for  visitors,  I 
might  be  seen  if  I  moved.  Those  in  the  garden  were  bet 
ter  off  than  I,  for  they  were  screened  by  the  trees,  but 
trying  to  join  them  I  might  attract  attention  to  myself. 

As  I  thought  this,  I  wondered  why  I  didn't  decide  upon 


258  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

the  thing  most  likely  to  solve  all  my  problems  at  once. 
If  I  were  killed,  Brian  would  grieve:  but  he  had  the 
Becketts  to  love  and  care  for  him,  and — he  had  Dierdre: 
no  use  disguising  that  fact  from  my  intelligence,  after 
the  episode  of  the  dog!  What  a  chance  for  me  to  dis 
appear,  having  done  for  Brian  all  I  could  do!  Oh,  why 
didn't  I  add  another  prayer  to  my  last,  and  beg  God 
to  let  me  die  that  minute? 

I'll  tell  you  why  I  did  not  pray  this,  Padre,  and  why, 
instead  of  trying  to  expose  my  life,  I  wished — almost 
unconsciously — to  save  it.  I  hardly  realized  why  then, 
but  I  do  realize  now.  It  is  different  in  these  days  from 
that  night  in  Paris,  when  I  wished  I  might  be  run  over 
by  a  motor-car.  At  that  time  I  should  have  been  glad 
to  die.  Now  I  cling  to  life — not  just  because  I'm  young 
and  strong,  and  people  call  me  beautiful,  but  because  I 
feel  I  must  stay  in  the  world  to  see  what  happens  next. 

I  kept  as  still  as  a  frightened  mouse.  I  didn't  move.  I 
scarcely  breathed.  Presently  an  aeroplane  sailed  into 
sight  directly  overhead,  and  flying  so  low  that  I  could 
make  out  its  iron  cross,  exactly  like  photographs  I'd  seen. 
Whether  the  men  in  it  could  see  me  or  not  I  can't  tell;  but 
if  they  could,  perhaps  they  mistook  me  for  one  of  the 
statues  they  knew  existed  in  the  ruined  chapel,  and  thought 
I  wasn't  worth  bombing. 

In  that  case  it  was  St.  Joseph  and  the  Virgin  who  pro 
tected  me ! 

In  a  second  the  big  bird  of  prey  had  swept  on.  I  was 
sick  with  fear  for  a  moment  lest  it  should  drop  an  "egg"  on 
to  the  garden,  and  kill  Brian  or  the  Becketts,  or  the 
lieutenant  who  had  wished  to  spare  us  this  danger.  Ever? 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  259 

the  O'Farrells  I  didn't  want  hurt;  and  I  was  pleased  to 
find  out  that  about  myself,  because  they  are  a  far  more 
constant  danger  for  me  than  all  the  aeroplanes  along 
the  German  front;  and  when  I  came  face  to  face  with 
realities  in  my  own  soul,  I  might  have  discovered  a  wicked 
desire  for  them  to  be  out  of  the  way  at  any  price.  But 
since  Dierdre  proved  herself  ready  to  die  for  Brian,  I  do 
admire  if  I  don't  like  her.  As  for  Julian — would  it  be 
possible,  Padre,  to  miss  a  person  you  almost  hate?  Any 
how,  when  I  tried  to  imagine  how  I  should  feel  if  I  went 
back  to  the  garden  and  saw  him  dead,  I  grew  quite  giddy 
and  ill.  How  queer  we  are,  we  human  things! 

But  no  one  was  hurt.  The  whole  party  hid  under  the 
trees;  and  as  the  cars  were  also  hidden  at  a  distance,  the 
German  fliers  turned  tail,  disappointed;  besides,  the  anti 
aircraft  gun  which  we'd  been  told  about,  and  had  seen 
on  our  way  to  the  convent,  was  potting  away  like  mad,  so  it 
wasn't  healthful  for  aeroplanes  to  linger  merely  "on  spec." 

Mother  Beckett  was  pale  and  trembling  a  little,  but  she 
said  that  she  had  been  too  anxious  about  me,  in  my  ab 
sence,  to  think  of  herself,  which  was  perhaps  a  good  thing. 
I  noticed,  when  I  Joined  them  in  the  garden,  after  the  roar 
had  changed  again  to  a  buzz,  that  Dierdre  stood  close  to 
Brian,  and  that  his  hand  was  on  her  shoulder,  her  hand  on 
Sirius's  beautiful  head.  Yet  I  felt  too  strangely  happy 
to  be  jealous.  I  suppose  it  must  have  been  through  my 
prayer—  or  the  answer  to  it. 


When  all  was  clear  and  the  danger  over  (our  guide  said 
that  the  "birds"  never  made  more  than  one  tour  of  in- 


260  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

spection  in  an  afternoon)  we  started  off  again.  Father 
Beckett  suggested  that  his  wife  had  better  go  home  and 
rest,  but  she  wouldn't  hear  of  it.  And  when  we  reached 
a  turning  of  the  road  which  would  lead  us  to  Coucy-le 
Chateau,  it  was  she  who  begged  our  lieutenant  to  let  us 
run  along  that  way,  "just  far  enough  for  a  glimpse,  a 
tiny  glimpse.*' 

' '  ^  I y  son  wrote  me  it  was  the  most  wonderful  old 
chateau  in  France/'  she  pleaded.  *Tve  got  in  my  pocket 
now  a  snapshot  he  sent  me." 

The  Frenchman  couldn't  resist.  You  know  how  charm 
ing  the  French  are  to  old  ladies.  "It  isn't  as  safe  as — as  the 
Bank  of  England!  "he  laughed.  "Sometimes  they  keep 
this  road  rather  hot.  But  to-day,  I  have  told  you,  things 
are  quiet  all  along.  We  will  take  what  Madame  calls  a 
tiny  glimpse." 

Orders  were  given  to  our  chauffeur.  Brian  was  with 
the  O'Farrells,  coming  on  behind,  and  of  course  the  Red 
Cross  taxi  followed  at  our  heels  like  a  faithful  dachshund. 
Our  big  car  flew  swiftly,  and  the  little  one  did  its  jolting 
best  to  keep  up  the  pace,  for  time  wouldn't  wait  for  us — 
and  these  autumn  days  are  cutting  themselves  short. 

Presently  we  saw  a  thing  which  proved  that  the  road 
was  indeed  "hot"  sometimes:  a  neat,  round  shell-hole, 
which  looked  ominously  new!  We  swung  past  it  with  a 
bump,  and  flashed  into  sight  of  a  ruin  which  dwarfed  all 
others  we  had  seen — yes,  dwarfed  even  cathedrals!  A 
long  line  of  ramparts  rising  from  a  high  headland  of  gray- 
white  chalk-ramparts  crowned  with  broken,  round 
towers,  which  the  sun  was  painting  with  heraldic  gold :  the 
stump  of  a  tremendous  keep  that  reared  its  bulk  like  a 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  261 

t 

giant  in  his  death  struggle,  for  a  last  look  over  his  shield  of 
shattered  walls.  This  was  what  German  malice  had 
made  of  Coucy,  pride  of  France,  architectural  master 
piece  of  feudal  times ! 

"This  is  as  far  as  I  dare  go!"  our  lieutenant  said,  with  a 
brusque  gesture  which  bade  the  chauffeur  stop.  But 
before  the  car  turned,  he  gave  us  a  moment  to  take  in 
the  picture  of  grandeur  and  unforgivable  cruelty.  Yes, 
unforgivable!  for  you  know,  Padre,  there  was  no  military 
motive  in  the  destruction.  The  only  object  was  to  de 
prive  France  forever  of  the  noblest  of  her  castles,  which 
has  helped  in  the  making  of  her  history  since  a  bishop  of 
Rheims  began  to  build  it  in  920. 

"Roinesuis 

Ne  prince,  ne  due,  ne  comte  aussy. 

Je  suys  le  Sire  de  Coucy." 

The  beautiful  old  boast  in  beautiful  old  French  sang  in 
my  head  as  I  gazed  through  tears  at  the  new  ruin  of 
ancient  grandeur. 

Some  of  those  haughty  Sires  de  Coucy  may  have 
deserved  to  have  their  stronghold  destroyed,  for  they 
seem — most  of  them — to  have  been  as  bad  as  they  were 
vain.  I  remember  there  was  one,  in  the  days  of  Louis 
XII,  who  punished  three  little  boys  for  killing  a  few 
rabbits  in  his  park,  by  ordering  the  children  to  be  hanged 
on  the  spot;  and  St.  Louis  was  so  angry  on  hearing  of  the 
crime  that  he  wished  to  hang  the  Sire  de  Coucy  on  the 
same  tree.  There  were  others  I've  read  of,  just  as  wicked 
and  high-handed:  but  their  castle  was  not  to  blame  for 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

its  master's  crimes!  Besides,  the  last  of  the  proud 
Enguerrands  and  Thomases  and  Raouls,  Seigneurs  of  the 
line,  was  son-in-law  to  Edward  III  of  England;  so  all  their 
sins  were  expiated  long  ago. 

"The  Boches  were  jealous  of  our  Coucy,"  said  the 
Frenchman,  with  a  sigh.  "They  have  nothing  to  com 
pare  with  it  on  their  side  of  the  Rhine.  If  they  could  have 
packed  up  the  chateau  and  carted  it  across  the  frontier 
they  would — if  it  had  taken  three  years.  As  they  couldn't 
do  that,  they  did  what  Cardinal  Mazarin  wasn't  able  to 
do  with  his  picked  engineers;  they  blew  it  up  with  high 
explosives.  But  all  they  could  steal  they  stole:  carvings 
and  historic  furniture.  You  know  there  was  a  room  the 
guardian  used  to  show  before  the  war — the  room  where 
Cesar  de  Bourbon  was  born,  the  son  of  Henri  Quatre  of 
Navarre  and  Gabrielle  d'Estrees?  That  room  the  Boches 
emptied  when  they  first  came  in  August,  1914.  Not  a 
piece  of  rich  tapestry,  not  a  suit  of  armour,  not  even  a 
chair,  or  a  table,  or  lamp  did  they  leave.  Everything 
was  sent  to  Germany.  But  we  believe  we  shall  get  it 
all  again  some  day.  And  now  we  must  go,  for  the  Boches 
shell  this  road  whenever  they  think  of  it,  or  have  nothing 
better  to  do!" 

The  signal  was  given.  We  turned  and  tore  along  the 
road  by  which  we'd  come,  our  backs  feeling  rather  sen 
sitive  and  exposed  to  chance  German  bombs,  until  we'd 
got  round  the  corner  to  a  "safe  section."  Our  way  led 
through  a  pitiful  country  of  crippled  trees  to  a  curious 
round  hill.  A  little  castle  or  miniature  fortress  must 
have  crowned  it  once,  for  the  height  was  entirely  circled 
by  an  ancient  moat.  On  top  of  this  green  mound  Prince 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  263 

Eitel  Fritz  built  for  himself  the  imitation  shooting-lodge 
which  was  our  goal  and  viewpoint.  And,  Padre,  there 
can't  be  another  such  German-looking  spot  in  martyred 
France  as  he  has  made  of  the  insulted  hillock ! 

I  don't  know  how  many  fair  young  birch  trees  he 
sacrificed  to  build  a  summer-house  for  himself  and  his 
staff  to  drink  beer  in,  and  gaze  over  the  country,  at 
St.  Quentin,  at  Soissons  and  a  hundred  conquered  towns 
and  villages !  Now  he's  obliged  to  look  from  St.  Quentin 
at  the  summer-house — and  how  we  pray  that  it  may  not 
be  for  long! 

Over  one  door  of  the  building  a  pair  of  crossed  swords 
carved  heavily  in  wood  form  a  stolid  German  decoration; 
and  still  more  maddeningly  German  are  the  seats  outside 
the  house,  made  of  cement  and  shaped  like  toadstools.  In 
the  sitting  room  are  rough  chairs,  and  a  big  table  so 
stained  with  wine  and  beer  that  I  could  almost  see  the  fat 
figures  of  the  prince  and  his  friends  grouped  round  it,  with 
cheers  for  "  Wein,  Weib,  und  Gesang." 

Close  down  below  us,  in  sloping  green  meadows,  a  lot  of 
war-worn  horses  en  permission  were  grazing  peacefully. 
Our  guide  said  that  some  were  "Americans,"  and  I 
fancied  them  dreaming  of  Kentucky  grasslands,  or  the 
desert  herbs  of  the  Far  West,  which  they  will  never  taste 
again.  Also  I  yearned  sorrowfully  over  the  weary  crea 
tures  that  had  done  their  "bit"  without  any  incentive, 
without  much  praise  or  glory,  and  that  would  presently  go 
back  to  do  it  all  over  again,  until  they  died  or  were  finally 
disabled.  I  remembered  a  cavalry-man  I  nursed  in  our 
Hopital  des  Epidemies  telling  me  how  brave  horses  are. 
"The  only  trouble  with  them  in  battle,"  he  said,  "is  when 


264  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

their  riders  are  killed,  to  make  them  fall  out  of  line. 
They  mill  keep  their  places ! " 

Both  Father  Beckett  and  the  French  officer  had  field- 
glasses,  but  we  hardly  needed  them  for  St.  Quentin.  Far 
away  across  a  plain  slowly  turning  from  bright  blue-green 
to  dim  green-blue  in  the  twilight,  we  saw  a  dream  town 
built  of  violet  shadows — Marie  Stuart's  dowry  town. 
Its  purple  roofs  and  the  dominating  towers  of  its  great 
collegiate  church  were  ethereal  as  a  mirage,  yet  delicately 
clear,  and  so  beautiful,  rising  from  the  river-bank,  that  I 
shuddered  to  think  of  the  French  guns,  forced  to  break 
the  heart  of  Faidherbe's  brave  city. 

It  was  a  time  of  day  to  call  back  the  past,  for  in  the 
falling  dusk  modern  things  and  old  things  blended  lov 
ingly  together.  For  all  one  could  see  of  detail,  nothing 
had  changed  much  since  the  plain  of  Picardy  was  the 
great  Merovingian  centre  of  France,  the  gateway  through 
which  the  English  marched,  and  went  away  never  to  return 
until  they  came  as  friends.  Still  less  had  the  scene  changed 
since  the  brave  days  when  Marguerite  de  Valois  rode 
through  Picardy  with  her  band  of  lovely  ladies  and  gallant 
gentlemen.  It  was  summer  when  she  travelled;  but  on 
just  such  an  evening  of  blue  twilight  and  silver  moonshine 
might  she  have  had  her  pretended  carriage  accident  at 
Catelet,  as  an  excuse  to  disappoint  the  Bishop  of  Cambrai, 
and  meet  the  man  best  loved  of  all  her  lovers,  Due  Henri  de 
Guise.  It  was  just  then  he  had  got  the  wound  which  gave 
him  his  scar  and  his  nickname  of  "Le  BalafrS";  and  she 
would  have  been  all  the  more  anxious  not  to  miss  her  hero. 

I  thought  of  that  adventure,  because  of  the  picture  Brian 
painted  of  the  Queen  on  her  journey,  the  only  one  of  his 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  265 

which  has  been  hung  in  the  Academy,  you  know,  Padre; 
and  I  sat  for  Marguerite.  Not  that  I'm  her  type  at  all, 
judging  from  portraits!  However,  I  fancied  myself  in 
tensely  in  the  finished  picture,  and  used  to  hope  I  should 
be  recognized  when  I  strolled  into  the  Academy.  But 
I  never  was. 

Looking  down  over  the  plain  of  Picardy,  I  pretended  to 
myself  that  I  could  see  the  Queen's  procession :  Marguerite 
(looking  as  much  as  possible  like  me !)  in  her  gold  and  crys 
tal  coach,  lined  with  rose-coloured  Spanish  velvet,  jewel- 
broidered :  the  gentlemen  outriders  trying  to  stare  through 
the  thick  panes  obscured  with  designs  and  mottoes 
concerning  the  sun  and  its  influence  upon  human  fate;  the 
high-born  girls  chattering  to  each  other  from  their  em 
broidered  Spanish  saddles,  as  they  rode  on  white  pal 
freys,  trailing  after  the  glittering  coach;  and  the  dust 
rising  like  smoke  from  wheels  of  jolting  chariots  which 
held  the  elder  women  of  the  Court. 

Oh,  those  were  great  days,  the  days  of  Henry  of  Navarre 
and  his  naughty  wife!  But,  after  all,  there  wasn't  as 
much  chivalry  and  real  romance  in  Picardy  then,  or  in 
the  time  of  St.  Quentin  himself,  as  war  has  brought  back 
to  it  now.  No  deeds  we  can  find  in  history  equal  the 
deeds  of  to-day ! 


We  got  lost  going  home,  somehow  taking  the  wrong  road, 
straying  into  a  wood,  plunging  and  bumping  down  and 
down  over  fearful  roads,  and  landing — by  what  might 
have  been  a  bad  accident — in  a  deep  ravine  almost  too 
strange  to  be  true. 


266  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

Even  our  French  officer  couldn't  make  out  what  had 
happened  to  us,  or  whither  we'd  wandered,  until  we'd 
stopped,  and  our  blaze  of  acetylene  had  lighted  up  a  series 
of  fantastic  caverns  in  the  rock  (caverns  improved  up  to 
date  by  German  cement)  and  in  front  of  that  honeycombed 
gray  wall  a  flat,  grassy  lawn  that  was  a  graveyard. 

"Mon  Dieu,  c'est  le  Ravin  de  Bitry  I "  he  cried.  "Let  us 
get  out  of  it!  I  would  never  have  brought  you  here  of 
my  own  free  will." 

:  "But  why— why?"  I  insisted.  "It  isn't  the  only 
graveyard  we  have  seen,  alas!  and  there  are  only  French 
names  on  the  little  crosses." 

"I  know,"  he  said.  "After  we  chased  the  Germans  out 
of  this  hole,  we  lived  here  ourselves,  in  their  caves — and 
died  here,  as  you  see,  Mademoiselle.  But  the  place  is 
haunted,  and  not  by  spirits  of  the  dead — worse!  Put  on 
your  hats  again,  Messieurs!  The  dead  will  forgive  you. 
And,  ladies,  wrap  veils  over  your  faces.  If  it  were  not  so 
late,  you  would  already  know  why.  But  the  noise  of  our 
autos,  and  the  lights  may  stir  up  those  ghosts ! " 

Then,  in  an  instant,  before  the  cars  could  turn,  we  did 
know  why.  Flies!  .  .  .  such  flies  as  I  had  never 
seen  .  .  .  nightmare  flies.  They  rose  from  every 
where,  in  a  thick  black  cloud,  like  the  plague  of  Egypt. 
They  were  in  thousands.  They  were  big  as  bees.  They 
dropped  on  us  like  a  black  jelly  falling  out  of  a  mould. 
They  sat  all  over  us.  It  was  only  when  our  cars  had 
swayed  and  stumbled  up  again,  over  that  awful  road, 
out  of  the  haunted  hole  in  the  deep  woods,  and  risen  into 
fresh,  moving  air,  that  the  horde  deserted  us.  Julian 
O'Farrell  had  his  hands  bitten,  and  dear  Mother  Beckett 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  267 

was  badly  stung  on  the  throat.  Horrible!  ...  I 
don't  think  I  could  have  slept  at  night  for  thinking  of  the 
Ravin  de  Bitry,  if  we  hadn't  had  such  a  refreshing  run 
home  that  the  impression  of  the  lost,  dark  place  was  puri 
fied  away. 

Forest  fragrance  sprayed  into  our  faces  like  perfume 
from  a  vaporizer.  We  seemed  to  pass  through  endless 
halls  supported  by  white  marble  pillars,  which  were  really 
spaces  between  trees,  magically  transformed  by  our 
blazing  headlight.  Always  in  front  of  us  hovered  an 
archway  of  frosted  silver,  moving  as  we  moved,  like  a 
pale,  elusive  rainbow;  and  when  we  put  on  extra  speed 
for  a  long,  straight  stretch,  poplars  carelessly  spared  by 
the  'Boches  spouted  up  on  either  side  of  us  like  geysers. 
Then,  suddenly,  across  a  stretch  of  blackness  palely  shone 
Compiegne,  as  Venice  shines  across  the  dark  lagoon. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

ETLE  did  I  think,  Padre,  to  write  you  from  Soissons! 
When  last  I  spoke  to  you  about  it,  we  were 
gazing  through  field-glasses  at  the  single  tower  of 
the  cathedral,  pointing  out  of  purple  shadows  toward  the 
evening  star  of  hope.  Then  we  lost  ourselves  in  the 
Ravin  de  Bitry,  and  arrived  thankfully  at  Compiegne 
two  hours  later  than  we  had  planned.  We  expected  to 
have  part  of  a  day  at  Soissons,  but — I  told  you  of-  the 
dreadful  flies  in  that  ravine  of  death,  and  how  Mother 
Beckett  was  stung  on  the  throat.  The  next  day  she  had 
a  headache,  but  took  aspirin,  and  pronounced  herself 
well  enough  for  the  trip  to  Soissons.  Father  Beckett  let 
her  go,  because  he's  in  the  habit  of  letting  her  do  whatever 
she  wants  to  do,  fancying  (and  she  fancies  it,  too)  that  he 
is  master.  You  see,  we  thought  it  was  only  a  fatigue- 
headache.  Foolishly,  we  didn't  connect  it  with  the 
sting,  for  Julian  O'Farrell  was  bitten,  too,  and  didn't 
complain  at  all. 

Well,  we  set  out  for  Soissons  yesterday  morning  (I  write 
again  at  night)  leaving  all  our  luggage  at  the  hotel  in 
Compiegne.  It  was  quite  a  safe  and  uneventful  run,  for 
the  Germans  stopped  shelling  Soissons  temporarily  some 
time  ago,  when  they  were  obliged  to  devote  their  whole 
attention  to  other  places.  The  road  was  good,  and  the 
day  a  dream  of  Indian  summer,  when  war  seemed  more 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  269 

than  ever  out  of  place  in  such  a  world.  If  Mother  Beckett 
looked  ill,  we  didn't  notice,  because  she  wore  her  dust- 
veil.  The  same  officer  was  with  us  who'd  been  our  guide 
last  time,  and  we  felt  like  friends,  as  he  explained,  with 
those  vivid  gestures  Frenchmen  have,  just  how  the 
Germans  in  September,  1914,  marched  from  Laon  upon 
Soissons — marched  fast,  singing,  yelling,  wild  to  take  a 
city  so  important  that  the  world  would  be  impressed. 
Why,  it  would  be — they  thought — as  if  the  whole  Ile-de- 
France  were  in  their  grasp!  The  next  step  would  be  to 
Paris,  goal  of  all  Germanic  invasions  since  Attila. 

It's  an  engaging  habit  of  Mother  Beckett's  to  punctuate 
exciting  stories  like  this  with  little  soft  sighs  of  sympathy: 
but  the  graphic  war  descriptions  given  by  our  lieutenant 
left  her  cold.  Even  when  we  came  into  the  town,  and 
began  to  go  round  it  in  the  car,  she  was  heavily  silent,  not 
an  exclamation!  And  we  ought  to  have  realized  that 
this  was  strange,  because  Soissons  nowadays  is  a  sight  to 
strike  the  heart  a  hammer-blow. 

Of  course  the  place  isn't  older  than  Rheims.  It's  of  the 
same  time  and  the  same  significance.  But  its  face  looks 
older  in  ruin — such  features  as  haven't  been  battered  out 
of  shape.  There's  the  wonderful  St.  Jean-des-Vignes, 
which  should  have  interested  the  little  lady,  because  the 
great  namesake  of  her  family  St.  Thomas  a  Beckett,  lived 
there,  when  it  was  one  of  Soissons'  four  famous  abbeys. 
There's  the  church  of  St.  Leger,  and  the  grand  old  gates  of 
St.  Medard,  to  say  nothing  of  the  cathedral  itself.  And 
then  there's  the  history,  which  goes  back  to  the  Suessiones 
who  owned  twelve  towns,  and  had  a  king  whose  power 
carried  across  the  sea,  all  the  way  to  Britain.  If  Mother 


270  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

Beckett  doesn't  know  much  about  history,  she  loves 
being  in  the  midst  of  it,  and  hearing  talk  of  it.  But  when 
our  Frenchman  told  us  a  story  of  her  latest  favourite,  King 
Clovis,  she  had  the  air  of  being  asleep  behind  her  thick 
blue  veil.  It  was  quite  a  good  story,  too,  about  a  gold 
vase  and  a  bishop.  The  gold  vase  had  been  stolen  in  the 
sack  of  the  churches,  after  the  battle  of  Soissons,  when 
Roman  rule  was  ended  in  France.  St.  Remi  begged 
Clovis  to  give  the  vase  back.  But  the  booty  was  being 
divided,  and  the  soldier  who  had  the  vase  refused  to  sur 
render  it  to  a  mere  monarch.  "You'll  get  what  your 
luck  brings  you,  like  the  rest  of  us!"  said  he,  striking  the 
vase  so  hard  with  his  battle-axe  that  it  was  dented,  and 
its  beauty  spoiled.  Clovis  swallowed  the  insult,  that 
being  the  day  of  soldiers,  not  of  kings :  but  he  didn't  for 
get;  and  he  kept  watch  upon  the  man.  A  year  later,  to 
the  day,  the  excuse  he'd  waited  for  came.  The  soldier's 
armour  was  dirty,  on  review;  Clovis  had  the  right  as  a 
general  to  reproach  and  punish  him,  so  snatching  the  man's 
battle-axe,  the  king  crushed  in  the  soldier's  head.  "I 
do  to  you  with  the  same  weapon  what  you  did  to  the  gold 
vase  at  Soissons ! "  he  said. 

It  wasn't  until  we  had  seen  everything,  and  had  spent 
over  an  hour  looking  at  the  martyred  cathedral,  from 
every  point  of  new,  inside  and  out,  that  Mother  Beckett 
confessed  her  suffering.  "Oh,  Molly!"  she  gasped, 
leaning  on  my  arm,  "I'm  so  glad  there's  only  one  tower, 
and  not  two !  That  is,  I'm  glad,  as  it  was  always  like  that, 

"Why,"  I  exclaimed,  "how  odd  of  you,  dearest!  I 
know  it's  considered  one  of  the  best  cathedrals  in  France, 
though  it  isn't  a  museum  of  sculpture,  like  Rheims.  But 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  271 

the  single  tower  worries  me,  it  looks  so  unfinished.  Tm 
not  glad  there's  only  one ! " 

"You  would  be  if  you  felt  like  I  do,"  she  moaned. 
"If  there  was  another  tower,  we'd  have  to  spend  double 
time  looking  at  it,  and  in  five  minutes  more  I  should  have 
to  faint!  Oh  no,  I've  stood  everything  so  far,  not  to  dis 
appoint  any  one,  but  I  couldn't  see  another  tower ! " 

With  that,  she  did  faint,  or  nearly,  then  came  to  herself, 
and  apologized  for  bothering  us!  Father  Beckett  hardly 
spoke,  but  his  face  was  gray-white  with  fear,  and  he  held 
the  fragile  creature  in  his  arms  as  if  she  were  his  last  link 
with  the  life  of  this  world. 

We  got  her  back  into  the  car;  and  the  man  who  had 
shown  us  the  cathedral  said  that  there  was  an  hotel  within 
five  minutes'  motoring  distance.  It  was  not  first  rate,  he 
explained,  but  officers  messed  there  and  occasionally 
wives  and  mothers  of  officers  stayed  there.  He  thought 
we  might  be  taken  in  and  made  fairly  comfortable;  and 
to  be  sure  we  didn't  miss  the  house,  he  rode  on  the  step  of 
the  car,  to  show  us  the  way. 

It  was  a  sad  way,  for  we  had  to  pass  hillocks  of  plaster 
and  stone  which  had  once  been  streets,  but  we  had  eyes 
only  for  Mother  Beckett's  face,  Father  Beckett  and  I: 
and  even  Brian  seemed  to  look  at  her.  Sirius,  too,  for 
he  would  not  go  into  the  Red  Cross  taxi  with  the  others! 
Brian,  whom  in  most  things  the  dog  obeys  with  a  pathetic 
eagerness,  couldn't  get  him  to  do  that:  and  when  I  said, 
"Oh,  his  eyes  are  tragic.  He  thinks  you're  going  to  send 
him  away,  never  to  see  you  again!"  Brian  didn't  insist. 
So  the  dog  sat  squeezed  in  among  us,  knowing  perfectly 
that  we  were  anxious  about  the  little  lady  who  patted 


272  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

him  so  often,  and  unpatriotically  saved  him  lumps  of  sugar. 
He  licked  her  small  fingers,  clasped  by  her  husband,  and 
attracting  Mother  Beckett's  attention  perhaps  kept  her 
from  fainting  again. 

Well,  we  got  to  the  hotel,  which  was  really  more  of  a 
pension  than  an  hotel,  and  Madame  Bornier,  the  elderly 
woman  in  deep  mourning  who  was  la  patronne,  was  kind 
and  helpful.  Her  best  room  had  been  made  ready  for 
the  wife  of  an  officer  just  coming  out  of  hospital,  but 
there  would  be  time  to  prepare  another.  Our  dear  invalid 
was  carried  upstairs  in  her  husband's  arms,  and  I  put  her 
to  bed  while  a  doctor  was  sent  for.  Of  course,  we  had  no 
permission  to  spend  a  night  at  Soissons,  but  I  began  to- 
f oresee  that  we  should  have  to  stay  unless  we  were  turned 
out  by  the  military  authorities. 

When  the  doctor  came — a  medecin  major  fetched  from 
a  hospital  by  our  officer-guide — he  said  that  Madame  was 
suffering  from  malarial  symptoms;  she  must  have  been 
poisoned.  So  then  of  course  we  remembered  the  sting  on 
her  throat.  He  examined  it,  looked  rather  grave,  and 
warned  Father  Beckett  that  Madame  sa  femme  would  not 
be  able  to  travel  that  day.  She  had  a  high  temperature, 
and  at  best  must  have  a  day  or  two  of  repose,  with  no  food 
save  a  little  boiled  milk. 

Soissons  seemed  the  last  place  in  France  to  hope  for 
milk  of  any  description,  but  the  doctor  promised  it  from 
the  hospital  if  it  couldn't  be  got  elsewhere,  and  added  with 
pride  that  Soissons  was  not  without  resources.  "When 
the  Germans  came  three  years  ago,"  he  said,  "most  of 
the  inhabitants  had  fled,  taking  what  they  could  carry. 
Only  seven  hundred  souls  were  left,  out  of  fifteen  thousand, 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  273 

but  many  have  come  back:  we  have  more  than  two 
thousand  now,  and  some  of  them  behaved  like  heroes  and 
heroines.  Oh  yes,  we  may  almost  say  that  life  goes  on 
normally!  You  shall  have  all  the  milk  you  need  for 
Madame." 

When  she  had  taken  some  medicine,  and  smiled  at  him, 
Father  Beckett  left  his  wife  in  my  care,  and  rushed  off  to 
arrange  about  permission  to  stop.  The  medecin  major 
and  our  officer-guide  were  useful.  After  telephoning  from 
the  military  hospital  to  headquarters,  everything  was 
arranged;  and  we  were  authorized  to  remain  in  Soissons, 
at  our  own  risk  and  peril.  Madame  Bornier  prepared 
rooms  for  us  all;  but  there  weren't  enough  to  go  round, 
so  Brian  and  Julian  O'Farrell  were  put  together,  and 
Dierdre  and  I !  (She,  by  the  way,  is  in  bed  at  this  moment, 
whether  asleep  or  not  I  don't  know;  but  if  not  she  is  pre 
tending.  Her  lashes  are  very  long,  and  she  looks  prettier 
than  I  ever  saw  her  look  before.  But  that  may  be  because 
I  like  her  better.  I  told  you,  that  after  what  she  did  for 
Brian  I  could  never  dislike  that  girl  again:  but  there  has 
been  another  incident  since  then,  about  which  I  will  tell 
you  to-morrow.  You  know,  I'm  not  easily  tired,  but  this 
is  our  second  night  at  Soissons.  I  sat  up  all  last  night 
with  Mother  Beckett,  and  oh,  how  glad  I  was,  Padre,  that 
Fate  had  forced  me  to  train  as  a  nurse !  I've  been  glad — 
thankful — ever  since  the  war:  but  this  is  the  first  time  my 
gladness  has  been  so  personal.  Brian's  illness  was  in 
hospital.  I  could  do  nothing  for  him.  But  you  can 
hardly  think  what  it  has  meant  to  me,  to  know  that  I've 
been  of  real  use  to  this  dear  woman,  that  I've  been  able  to 
spare  her  suffering.  Before,  I  had  no  right  to  her  love. 


274  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

I'd  stolen  it.     Now,  maybe  I  am  beginning  to  earn  a  little 
of  the  affection  which  she  and  Father  Beckett  give  me. 

I  was  all  "keyed  up"  when  I  began  to  write  to  you 
to-night,  Padre;  but  I  was  supposed  to  spend  my  three 
hours  "off"  in  sleep.  One  hour  is  gone.  Even  if  I 
can't  sleep,  I  shall  pass  the  other  two  trying  to  rest,  in 
my  narrow  bed,  which  is  close  to  Dierdre's. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

THIS  is  the  next  day.     Mother  Beckett  is  better, 
and  I've  been  praised  by  the  mSdecin  major  for 
my    nursing.     We've    got    our    luggage   from 
Compiegne,  and  may  be  here  for  days.     We  shall  miss  the 
pleasure  of   travelling   to   Amiens  with  the   war  corre 
spondents,  who  must  go  without  us,  and  we  women  will 
get  no  glimpse  of  the  British  front ! 

Now  I'm  going  to  tell  you  about  the  incident  which  has 
made  me  almost  love  Dierdre  O'Farrell — a  miracle,  it 
would  have  seemed  two  weeks  ago,  when  my  best  mental 
pet  name  for  her  was  "little  cat!" 

When  I  wrote  last  night,  I  mentioned  that  the  room 
Mother  Beckett  has  in  this  little  hotel  had  been  intended 
for  the  wife  of  a  French  officer  coming  out  of  hospital. 
Another  room  was  prepared  for  that  lady,  and  it  happened 
to  be  the  one  next  door  to  Mother  Beckett's.  Through  the 
thin  partition  wall  I  heard  voices,  a  man's  and  a  woman's, 
talking  in  French.  I  couldn't  make  out  the  words — in 
fact,  I  tried  not  to! — but  the  woman's  tones  were  soft 
and  sweet  as  the  coo  of  a  dove.  I  pictured  her  beautiful 
and  young,  and  I  was  sure  from  her  way  of  speaking  that 
she  adored  her  husband.  The  two  come  into  my  story 
presently,  but  I  think  it  should  begin  with  a  walk  that 
Brian  and  Dierdre  (and  Sirius,  of  course)  took  together. 

With  me  shut  up  in  Mother  Beckett's  room,  my  blind 

275 


276  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

brother  and  Julian  O'Farrell's  sister  were  thrown  more 
closely  together  even  than  before.  I'm  sure  Julian  saw  to 
that,  eliminating  himself  as  he  couldn't  do  when  travelling 
all  three  in  the  Red  Cross  taxi!  Perhaps  Dierdre  and 
Brian  had  never  been  alone  in  each  other's  company  so 
long;  and  Brian  found  the  chance  he'd  wished  for,  to  get 
at  the  real  girl,  behind  her  sulky  "  camouflage." 

He  has  repeated  the  whole  conversation  to  me,  because 
he  wanted  me  to  know  Dierdre  as  he  has  learned  to  know 
her;  and  I  shall  write  everything  down  as  I  remember  it, 
though  the  words  mayn't  be  precisely  right.  Never  was 
there  any  one  like  Brian  for  drawing  out  confidences  from 
shut-up  souls  (except  you,  Padre!)  if  he  chooses  to  open 
his  own  soul,  for  that  end;  and  apparently  he  thought  it 
worth  while  in  the  case  of  Dierdre,  He  began  by  telling 
her  things  about  himself — his  old  hopes  and  ambitions 
and  the  change  in  them  since  his  blindness.  He  confessed 
to  the  girl  (as  he  confessed  to  me  long  ago)  how  at  first  he 
wished  desperately  to  die,  because  life  without  eyesight 
wasn't  life.  He  has  so  loved  colour,  and  beauty,  and 
success  in  his  work  had  been  so  close,  that  he  felt  he 
couldn't  endure  blindness. 

"I  came  near  being  a  coward,"  he  said.  "A  man  who 
puts  an  end  to  his  life  because  he's  afraid  to  face  it  is  a 
coward.  So  I  tried  to  see  if  I  could  readjust  the  balance. 
I  fell  back  on  my  imagination — and  it  saved  me.  Im 
agination  was  always  my  best  friend!  It  took  me  by  the 
hand  and  led  me  into  a  garden — a  secret  sort  of  garden 
that  belongs  to  the  blind,  and  to  no  one  else.  It's  the 
place  where  the  spirits  of  colour  and  the  spirits  of  flowers 
live — the  spirit  of  music,  too — and  all  sorts  of  beautiful 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  277 

strange  things  which  people  who've  never  been  blind  can't 
see — or  even  hear.  They're  not  'things,'  exactly.  They're 
more  like  the  reality  behind  the  things:  God's  thoughts 
of  things  as  they  should  be, before  He  created  them;  artists' 
thoughts  of  their  pictures;  musicians'  thoughts  of  their 
compositions — all  better  than  the  things  resulting  from  the 
thoughts.  Nothing  in  the  outside  world  is  as  wonderful  as 
what  grows  in  that  garden!  I  couldn't  go  on  being  un 
happy  there.  Nobody  could — once  he'd  found  the  way  in." 

"It  must  be  hard  finding  the  way  in!"  Dierdre  said. 

"It  is  at  first — alone,  without  help.  That's  why,  if  I 
can,  I  want  to  help  my  fellow  blind  men  to  get  there.'9 

"Only  men?     Not  women,  too?  " 

"I've  never  met  a  blind  woman.  Probably  I  never 
shall." 

"You're  talking  to  one  this  minute!  When  I'm  with 
you,  I  always  feel  as  if  I  were  blind,  and  you  could  see." 

"  You're  unjust  to  yourself." 

"No,  but  I'm  unjust  to  you — I  mean,  I  have  been.  I 
must  tell  you  before  we  go  on,  because  you're  too  kind, 
too  generous.  I'm  blind  about  lots  of  things,  but  I  do 
see  that,  now.  I  see  how  good  you  are.  I  used  to  think 
you  were  too  good  to  be  true — that  you  must  be  a  poseur. 
I  was  always  waiting  for  the  time  when  you'd  give  your 
self  away — when  you'd  show  yourself  on  the  same  level 
with  my  brother  and  me." 

"  But  I  am  on  the  same  level." 

"  Don't  say  it !  I  don't  feel  that  horrid,  bitter  wish  now. 
I'm  glad  you're  higher  than  we  are.  It  makes  me  better 
to  look  up  to  the  place  where  you  are.  But  I  wish  I 
could  get  nearer." 


278  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

"You  are  very  near.  We're  friends,  aren't  we?  You 
don't  really  mind  because  I'm  from  the  North  and  you 
from  the  South,  and  because  we  don't  quite  agree  about 
politics?" 

"I'd  forgotten  about  politics  between  you  and  me! 
But  there  are  other  distances.  Do  take  me  into  your 
garden.  You  say  it  belongs  only  to  blind  people;  but  if  I 
am  blind —  with  a  different  kind  of  blindness,  and  worse — 
can't  I  get  there  with  you?  I  need  such  a  garden,  dread 
fully.  I'm  so  disappointed  in  Me." 

"Tell  me  how  you're  unhappy,  and  how  you've  been 
disappointed,"  said  Brian.  "Then  perhaps  we  can  find 
the  right  flowers  to  cure  you,  in  the  garden." 

So  she  told  him  what  Julian  had  told  me:  about  trying 
to  get  on  the  stage,  and  not  succeeding,  and  realizing  that 
she  couldn't  act;  feeling  that  there  was  no  vocation,  no 
place  for  her  anywhere.  To  comfort  the  girl,  Brian  opened 
the  gate  of  his  garden  of  the  blind,  and  gave  her  its  secrets, 
as  he  has  given  them  to  me.  He  explained  to  her  his  trick 
of  "seeing  across  far  spaces,"  with  the  eyes  of  his  mind, 
and  heart:  saying  aloud,  to  himself,  names  of  glorious 
places — "Athens — Rome — Venice,"  and  going  there  in 
the  airship  of  imagination;  calling  up  visions  of  rose-sunset 
light  on  the  yellowing  marble  of  the  Acropolis,  or  moonlight 
in  the  Pincian  gardens,  with  great  umbrella-pines  like  blots 
of  ink  on  steel,  or  the  opal  colours  shimmering  deep  down, 
under  the  surface  of  the  Grand  Canal.  He  made  Dierdre 
understand  his  way  of  "listening  to  a  landscape,"  knowing 
by  the  voice  of  the  wind  what  trees  it  touched;  the  buzz 
of  olive  leaves  bunched  like  hives  of  silver  bees  against  the 
blue;  the  sea-murmur  of  pines;  the  skeleton  swish  of 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  279 

palms;  the  gay,  dancing  rustle  of  poplars.  And  he  showed 
her  how  he  gathered  beauty  and  colour  from  words,  which 
made  pictures  in  his  brain. 

"I  never  thought  of  all  these  things  when  I  could  see 
pictures  with  my  eyes — and  paint  them  with  my  hands," 
he  said.  And  perhaps  he  gave  a  sigh  for  the  past,  which 
touched  Dierdre's  heart  as  the  wind,  in  his  fancy,  touched 
the  trees.  "Couldn't  you  use  your  old  knowledge,  and 
learn  to  paint  without  seeing?"  she  asked.  "You  might 
have  a  line  for  the  horizon,  and  with  someone  to  mix  your 
colours  under  your  directions — someone  who'd  tell  you 
where  to  find  the  reds,  where  the  greens,  and  so  on,  some 
one  to  warn  you  if  you  went  wrong.  You  might  make 
wonderful  effects." 

"I've  thought  of  that,"  said  Brian.  "I've  hoped— it 
might  be.  Sometime,  when  this  trip  is  over,  I  may  ask 
my  sister's  help " 

"*  Oh,  your  sister's ! "  Dierdre  broke  in,  " But  she  may 
marry.  Or  she  may  go  back  to  nursing  again.  I  wish  I 
could  help  you.  It  would  make  me  happy.  It  would  be 
helping  myself,  more  than  you !  And  we  could  begin  soon. 
I  could  buy  you  paints  from  a  list  you'd  give  me.  If 
we  succeeded,  you  could  surprise  your  sister  and  the 
Becketts.  It  would  be  splendid." 

Brian  agreed  that  it  would  be  splendid,  but  he  said  that 
his  sister  must  be  "in"  it,  too.  He  wouldn't  have  secrets 
from  her,  even  for  the  pleasure  of  a  surprise. 

"She  won't  let  me  help  you,"  Dierdre  said.  "She'll 
want  to  do  everything  for  you  herself." 

Brian  assured  the  girl  that  she  was  mistaken  about  his 
sister.  "She's  mistaken  about  you,  too,"  he  added. 


£80  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

"  You'll  see !  Molly '11  be  grateful  to  you  for  inventing  such 
a  plan  for  me.  She'll  want  you  to  be  the  one  to  carry  it 
out." 

No  argument  of  his  could  convince  the  girl,  however. 
They  came  back  to  the  hotel  at  last,  after  a  walk  by 
the  river,  closer  friends  than  before,  but  Dierdre  depressed, 
if  no  longer  sulky.  She  seemed  in  a  strange,  tense  mood, 
as  though  there  were  more  she  wished  to  say — if  she 
dared. 

Dusk  was  falling  (this  was  evening  of  the  day  we  arrived* 
you  must  realize,  Padre)  and  Brian  admitted  that  he  was 
tired.  He'd  taken  no  such  walk  since  he  came  out  of 
hospital,  weeks  and  weeks  ago. 

"Let's  go  and  sit  in  the  salon,  to  rest  a  few  minutes  and 
finish  our  talk,"  he  proposed.  "We're  almost  sure  to 
have  the  room  to  ourselves." 

But  for  once  Brian's  intuition  was  at  fault.  There  were 
two  persons  in  the  little  salon,  a  lady  writing  letters  at  a 
desk  by  the  window,  and  a  French  officer  who  had  drawn 
the  one  easy  chair  in  the  room  in  front  of  a  small  wood  fire. 
This  fire  had  evidently  not  existed  long,  as  the  room  was 
cold,  with  the  grim,  damp  chill  of  a  place  seldom  occu 
pied  or  opened  to  the  air. 

As  Dierdre  led  Brian  in,  the  lady  at  the  desk  glanced  up 
at  the  newcomers,  and  the  officer  in  the  big  chair  turned 
his  head.  The  woman  was  young  and  very  remarkable 
looking,  with  the  pearl-pale  skin  of  a  true  Parisian,  large 
dark  eyes  under  clearly  sketched  black  brows,  and  masses 
of  prematurely  white  hair. 

For  a  second,  Dierdre  thought  this  beautiful  hair  must 
be  blonde,  as  the  wQjnan  could  not  be  more  than  twenty- 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

eight;  but  the  light  from  the  window  fell  full  upon  the 
silver  ripples,  blanching  them  to  dazzling  whiteness. 

"What  a  lovely  creature,"  the  girl  thought.  "What 
can  have  happened  to  turn  her  hair  white?  " 

As  for  the  man,  Dierdre  took  an  instant  dislike  to  him, 
for  his  selfishness.  His  face  was  burned  a  deep,  ruddy 
brown,  and  his  eyes,  lit  by  the  red  glow  of  the  fire,  were 
bright  with  a  black,  bead-like  brightness.  They  stared  so 
directly,  so  unblinkingly  at  Brian,  that  Dierdre  was  vexed. 
She  was  his  chosen  friend,  his  confidante,  his  champion 
now!  Not  even  Sirius  could  be  more  fiercely  devoted  than 
she,  who  had  to  atone  for  her  past  injustice.  She  was  angry 
that  blind  Brian  should  be  thus  coldly  stared  at,  and  that 
a  man  in  better  health  than  he  should  calmly  sprawl  in  the 
best  chair,  screening  the  fire. 

By  this  time,  Padre,  you  will  have  learned  enough  about 
Dierdre  O'Farrell  to  know  what  her  temper  is !  She  forgot 
that  a  stranger  might  not  realize  Brian's  blindness  at  first 
sight,  in  a  room  where  the  dusk  was  creeping  in,  and  she 
spoke  sharply,  in  her  almost  perfect  French. 

"There's  quite  a  nice  fire,"  she  said,  "and  I  should  have 
thought  there  was  room  for  everybody  to  enjoy  it,  but  it 
seems  there's  only  enough  for  one  I  We'd  better  try  the 
salle  a  manger,  instead,  I  suppose." 

Brian,  puzzled,  paused  at  the  door,  his  hand  on  Sirius's 
head,  Dierdre  standing  in  front  of  them  both  like  a  ruffled 
sparrow. 

The  French  officer  straightened  up  in  his  chair  with  an 
astonished  look,  but  did  not  rise.  It  was  the  woman  by 
the  window  (Dierdre  had  not  connected  her  with  the  man 
by  the  fire)  who  sprang  to  her  feet.  "Mademoiselle,"  she 


£82  EVERYMAN'S  LAND  ' 

said  quietly,  in  a  voice  of  exquisite  sweetness,  "my  hus 
band  would  be  the  first  one  in  the  world  to  move,  and  give 
his  place  to  others,  if  he  had  known  that  he  was  monopoliz 
ing  the  fire.  But  he  did  not  know.  It  was  I  who  placed 
him  there.  Those  eyes  of  his  which  look  so  bright  are 
made  of  crystal.  He  lost  his  sight  at  the  Chemin  des 
Dames." 

As  she  spoke,  choking  on  the  last  words,  the  woman  with 
white  hair  crossed  the  room  swiftly,  and  caught  the  hand 
of  her  husband,  which  was  stretched  out  as  if  groping  for 
hers.  He  stumbled  to  his  feet,  and  she  stood  defending 
him  like  a  gentle  creature  of  the  woods  at  bay. 

Perhaps  at  no  other  moment  of  her  life  would  Dierdre 
O'Farrell  have  been  struck  with  such  poignant  repentance. 
That  she,  who  had  just  been  shown  the  secret,  inner  heart 
of  one  blind  man,  should  deliberately  wound  another, 
seemed  more  than  she  could  bear,  and  live. 

Brian  remained  silent,  partly  because  he  was  still  con 
fused,  and  partly  to  give  Dierdre  the  chance  to  speak, 
which  he  felt  instinctively  she  would  wish  to  seize. 

She  took  a  step  forward,  then  stopped,  with  a  sob, 
shamed  tears  stinging  her  eyes.  "Will  you  forgive  me?" 
she  begged.  "I  would  rather  have  died  than  hurt  a  blind 
man,  or — or  any  one  who  loves  a  blind  man.  Lately  I've 
been  finding  out  how  sacred  blindness  is.  I  ought  to  have 
guessed,  Madame,  that  you  were  with  him — that  you 
were  his  wife.  I  ought  to  have  known  that  only  a  great 
grief  could  have  turned  your  wonderful  hair  white — you, 
so  young " 

"  Her  hair  white ! "  cried  the  blind  officer.  "  No,  I'll  not 
beKeve  it-  Suzanne,  tell  this  lady  she's  mistaken.  I 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  283 

remember,  in  some  lights,  it  was  the  palest  gold,  almost 
silver — your  beautiful  hair  that  I  fell  in  love  with " 

His  voice  broke.  No  one  answered.  There  fell  a  dead 
silence,  and  Dierdre  had  time  to  realize  what  she  had  done. 
She  had  been  cruel  as  the  grave!  She  had  accused  a  help 
less  blind  man  of  selfishness;  and  not  content  with  that, 
on  top  of  all  she  had  ghen  away  the  secret  that  a  brave 
woman's  love  had  hidden. 

"Suzanne — you  don't  speak! " 

"Oh!"  the  trembling  woman  tried  to  laugh.  "Of 
course,  Mademoiselle  is  mistaken.  That  goes  without 
saying." 

"Yes — I — of  course"  Dierdre  echoed.  "It  was  the 
light — deceived  me." 

"And  now,"  said  the  blind  man  slowly,  "you  are  trying 
to  deceive  me — you  are  both  trying!  Suzanne,  why  did 
you  keep  it  from  me  that  your  hair  had  turned  white  with 
grief?  Didn't  you  know  I'd  love  you  more,  for  such  a 
proof  of  love  for  me?  " 

"Indeed,  I — oh,  you  mustn't  think "  she  began  to 

stammer.  "  I  loved  your  dear  eyes  as  you  loved  my  hair. 
But  I  love  it  twice  as  much  now.  I ' ' 

He  cut  her  short.  "I  don't  think.  I  know.  Cherie, 
you  need  have  had  no  fear.  I  shall  worship  you  after 
this." 

"  She  could  never  have  been  so  lovely  before.  Her  hair 
is  like  spun  glass,"  Dierdre  tried  to  atone.  "  People  would 
turn  to  look  at  her  in  the  street.  Monsieur  le  Capitaine, 
you  should  be  proud  of  such  a  beautiful  wife." 

"I  am,"  the  man  answered,  "proud  of  her  beauty,  more 
proud  of  her  heart." 


284  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

"But  it  is  I  who  am  proud!"  the  woman  caught  him  up. 
"He  has  lost  his  dear  eyes  that  all  women  admired,  yet 
he  has  won  honours  such  as  few  men  have.  What  does 
it  matter  about  my  poor  hair?  You  can  see  by  the  ribbons 
on  his  breast,  Mademoiselle,  what  he  is — what  he  has  done 
for  his  country.  You  also,  Monsieur,  you  see — 

"I  don't  see,  Madame,  because  I,  too,  am  blind,"  said 
Brian.  "But  I  feel — I  feel  that  your  husband  has  won 
something  which  means  more  than  his  eyes,  more  than  all 
his  honours  and  decorations :  a  great  love." 

"You  are  blind!"  exclaimed  the  Frenchwoman.  "I 
should  never  have  guessed.  Ah,  Madame,  it  is  I  who  must 
now  ask  your  pardon!  I  called  you  'Mademoiselle.' 
Already  I  had  forgiven  you  what  you  said  in  error.  But 
I  did  not  understand,  or  the  forgiveness  would  have 
been  easier.  Your  first  thought  was  for  your  husband — 
your  blind  husband — just  as  my  thought  always  is  and 
will  be  for  mine !  You  wanted  him  to  have  a  place  by  the 
fire.  Your  temper  was  in  arms,  not  for  yourself,  but 
for  him — his  comfort.  How  well  I  understand  now! 
Madame,  you  and  I  have  the  same  cross  laid  upon  us. 
But  it's  a  cross  of  honour.  It  is  le  croix  de  guerre  I " 

"I  wish  I  had  a  right  to  it!"  Dierdre  broke  out. 
"I  haven't,  because  he  is  not  my  husband.  He  doesn't 
care  for  me — except  maybe,  as  a  friend.  But  to  atone  to 
him  for  injustice,  to  punish  myself  for  hurting  you,  I'll  con 
fess  something.  I'd  marry  him  to-morrow,  blind  as  he  is — 
perhaps  because  he  is  blind ! — and  be  happy  and  proud  all 
my  life — if  he  would  have  me.  Only, — I  know  he  won't" 

"  My  child !  I  care  too  much  for  you,"  Brian  answered, 
after  an  instant  of  astonished  silence,  "far  too  much  to 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  285 

take  you  at  your  word.  Some  men  might — but  not  I! 
Monsieur  le  Capitaine  here,  and  Madame,  were  husband 
and  wife  before  their  trouble  came.  That  is  different " 

"No!"  cried  the  woman  whose  name  was  Suzanne. 
"It  is  not  different.  My  husband's  the  one  man  on  earth 
for  me.  If  we  were  not  married — if  he  had  lost  his  legs 
and  arms  as  well  as  his  eyes,  I'd  still  want  to  be  his  wife — 
want  it  more  than  a  kingdom." 

"You  hear,  Monsieur,"  her  husband  said,  laughing  a 
little,  and  holding  her  close,  with  that  perfect  independence 
of  onlookers  which  the  French  have  when  they're 
thoroughly  in  love. 

"  I  hear,  Madame,"  said  Brian.  "  But  you,  Monsieur  le 
Capitaine — you  would  not  have  accepted  the  sacri- 

n       »> 

"I'm  not  sure  I  could  have  resisted,"  the  Frenchman 
smiled. 

"You  love  her! — that  is  why,"  Dierdre  said.  "My 
friend — doesn't  love  me.  He  never  could.  I'm  not 
worthy.  No  one  good  could  love  me.  If  he  knew  the  worst 
of  me,  he'd  not  even  be  my  friend.  And  I  suppose,  after 
this,  he  won't  be.  If,  by  and  by,  I'm  not  ashamed  of  myself 
for  what  I've  said,  he'll  be  ashamed  for  me,  because " 

"Don't!"  Brian  stopped  her.  "You  know  I  mustn't 
let  myself  love  you,  Dierdre.  And  you  don't  really  love 
me.  It's  only  pity  and  some  kind  of  repentance — for 
nothing  at  all — that  you  feel.  But  we'll  be  greater 
friends  than  ever.  I  understand  just  why  you  spoke,  and 
it's  going  to  help  me  a  lot — like  a  strong  conic.  You 
must  have  known  it  would.  And  if  Monsieur  and 
Madame  have  forgiven  us " 


286  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

"Us?  What  have  you  done?  If  they've  forgiven 
me " 

"They  have,  indeed,  forgiven,"  said  the  blind  French 
man.  "They  even  thank  you.  If  possible  you've  drawn 
them  closer  together  than  before." 

Brian  searched  for  Dierdre's  hand,  and  found  it.  "Let 
us  go  now,  and  leave  them,"  he  whispered. 

So  they  went  away,  and  Brian  softly  shut  the  door  of  the 
little  salon. 

"I  did  mean  every  word  I  said!"  the  girl  blurted  out, 
turning  upon  him  in  the  hall.  "But — I  shouldn't  have 
dared  say  it  if  I  hadn't  been  sure  you  didn't  care.  And 
even  if  you  did  care — or  could — your  sister  wouldn't  let 
y ou .  She  knows  me  exactly  as  I  am . " 

"She  shall  know  you  as  you  are — my  true  and  brave 
little  friend ! "  Brian  said. 

He  can  find  his  way  about  wonderfully,  even  in  a  house 
with  which  he  is  merely  making  acquaintance:  besides, 
Sirius  was  with  him.  But  he  felt  an  immense  tenderness 
for  Dierdre  after  that  desperate  confession.  He  didn't 
wish  the  girl  to  fancy  that  he  could  get  on  without  her 
just  then,  or  that  he  thought  she  had  any  reason  for  run 
ning  away  from  him.  He  asked  if  she  would  take  him  to 
his  room,  so  that  he  might  rest  there,  alone,  remembering 
an  exquisite  moment  of  his  life. 

"It's  wonderful  to  feel  that  for  a  beautiful  girl  like  you — 
blind  as  I  am,  I  am  a  man  /"  he  said.  "Thank  you  with 
all  my  heart — for  everything." 

"Who  told  you  I  was  beautiful?"  Dierdre  flung  the 
question  at  him. 

"My  sister  Mary  told  me,"  Brian  answered.     "Be- 


.EVERYMAN'S  LAND  287 

sides — I  felt  it.\  A  man  does  fee/  such  things — perhaps  all 
the  more  if  he  is  blind." 

v"Your  sister  Mary?"  the  girl  echoed.  "She  doesn't 
think  I'm  beautiful.  Or  if  she  does,  it's  against  her 
will.", 

"  It  won't  be,  after  this." 

"Why  not?    You  won't  tell  her " 

"  I'll  tell  her  to  love  you,  and — to  help  me  not  to ! " 

It  was  just  then  they  came  to  Brian's  door,  and  Dierdre 
fled,  Sirius  staring  after  her  in  dignified  surprise. 

But  Dierdre  herself  came  to  me  at  once,  and  told  me 
everything,  with  a  kind  of  proud  defiance. 

" I  do  love  your  brother,"  she  boasted.  "I  would  marry 
him  if  he'd  have  me.  I  don't  care  what  you  think  of  me, 
or  what  you  say ! " 

"Why,  I  love  you  for  loving  him,"  I  threw  back  at  her. 
"That's  what  I  think  of  you— and  that's  what  I  say." 

I  was  sincere,  Padre.  Yet  I  don't  see  how  they  can  ever 
marry,  even  if  Brian  should  learn  to  love  the  girl  enough. 
Neither  one  has  a  penny — and — Brian  is  Hind.  Who  can 
tell  if  he  will  ever  get  his  sight  again?  I  wish  Dierdre 
hadn't  come  into  our  lives  in  just  the  way  she  did  come! 
I  wish  she  weren't  Julian  O'Farrell's  sister!  I  hope  she 
won't  be  pricked  by  that  queer  conscience  of  hers  to  tell 
Brian  any  secrets  which  concern  me  as  well  as  Julian  and 
herself.  And  I  hope — whatever  happens! — that  I  shan't 
be  mean  enough  to  be  jealous.  But — with  such  a  new, 
exciting  "friendship"  for  Brian's  prop,  it  seems  as  if,  for 
me — Othello's  occupation  would  be  gone ! 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

WE'RE  at  Amiens,  where  we  came  by  way  of 
Montdidier  and  Moreuil;  and  nearly  two  weeks 
have  dragged  or  slipped  away  since  I  wrote  last. 
Meanwhile  a  thousand  things  have  happened.  But  I'll 
begin  at  the  beginning  and  write  on  till  I  am  called  by 
Mother  Beckett. 

We  stopped  at  Soissons  three  more  days  after  I  told  you 
about  Dierdre  and  Brian,  and  Captain  Devot  and  his  wife. 
Not  only  did  they  forgive  Dierdre — those  two — but  they 
took  her  to  their  hearts,  perhaps  more  for  Brian's  sake 
than  her  own.  I  was  introduced  to  them,  and  they  were 
kind  to  me,  too.  Of  the  blind  man  I  have  a  beautiful 
souvenir.  I  must  tell  you  about  it,  Padre ! 

The  evening  before  we  left  Soissons  (when  the  doctor 
had  pronounced  Mother  Beckett  well  enough  for  a  short 
journey)  I  had  an  hour  in  the  stuffy  little  salon  with 
Dierdre  and  Brian  and  the  Devots.  We  sat  round  the 
fire — plenty  of  room  for  us  all,  in  a  close  circle — and  Cap 
tain  Devot  began  to  talk  about  his  last  battle  on  the 
Chemin  des  Dames.  Suddenly  he  realized  that  the  story 
was  more  than  his  wife  could  bear — for  it  was  in  that 
battle  he  lost  his  eyes!  How  he  realized  what  she  was 
enduring,  I  don't  know,  for  she  didn't  speak,  or  even  sigh, 
and  Brian  sat  between  them;  so  he  couldn't  have  known 
she  was  trembling.  It  must  have  been  some  electric 

288 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  289 

current  of  sympathy  between  the  husband  and  wife,  I 
suppose — a  magnetic  flash  to  which  a  blind  man  would 
be  more  sensitive  than  others.  Anyhow,  he  suddenly 
stopped  speaking  of  the  fight,  and  told  us  instead  about  a 
dream  he  had  the  night  before  the  battle — a  dream  where 
he  saw  the  ladies  for  whom  "The  Ladies'  Way"  was  made, 
go  riding  by,  along  the  "Chemin  des  Dames." 

"In  silks  and  satins  the  ladies  went 
Where  the  breezes  sighed  and  the  poplars  bent, 
Taking  the  air  of  a  Sunday  morn 
Midst  the  red  of  poppies  and  gold  of  corn — 
Flowery  ladies  in  gold  brocades, 
With  negro  pages  and  serving  maids, 
In  scarlet  coach  or  in  gilt  sedan, 
With  brooch  and  buckle  and  flounce  and  fan, 
Patch  and  powder  and  trailing  scent, 
Under  the  trees  the  ladies  went, 
Lovely  ladies  that  gleamed  and  glowed, 
As  they  took  the  air  of  the  Ladies'  Road." 

That  verse  came  from  Punch,  not  from  Captain  Devot. 
I  happen  to  remember  it  because  it  struck  my  fancy  when 
I  read  it,  and  added  to  the  romance  of  the  road  made  for 
Louis  XV's  daughters — daughters  of  France,  where 
now  so  many  sons  of  France  have  died  for  France!  But 
the  ladies  of  Captain  Devot's  dream  were  like  that,  travel 
ling  with  a  gorgeous  cavalcade,  and  as  they  rode,  they  were 
listening  to  a  song  about  the  old  Abbey  of  Vauclair  on  the 
plateau  of  the  Craonne.  When  they  came  to  a  place 
where  the  poppies  clustered  thickest,  the  three  princesses 
insisted  on  stopping — Princess  Adelaide,  Princess  Sophia, 


290  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

Princess  Victoire.  They  wished  to  gather  the  flowers  to 
take  with  them  to  the  Chdteau  de  Bove,  where  they  were 
going  to  visit  their  dame  d'honneur,  Madame  de  Nar- 
bonne,  but  their  guards  argued  that  already  it  was  growing 
late:  they  had  better  hurry  on.  At  this  the  girls  laughed 
silvery  laughter.  What  did  time  matter  to  them?  This 
was  their  road,  made  and  paved  for  their  pleasure !  They 
would  not  be  hurried  along  it.  No  indeed;  to  show  that 
time  as  well  as  the  road  was  theirs,  to  do  with  as  they  liked, 
they  would  get  down  and  make  a  chain  of  poppies  long 
enough  to  stretch  across  the  whole  plateau  before  it  dipped 
to  the  valley  of  the  Aillette ! 

So,  in  Captain  Devot's  dream,  the  princesses  descended, 
and  they  and  all  their  pretty  ladies  began  weaving  a  chain 
of  poppies.  As  they  wove,  the  flower-chain  fell  from  their 
little  white  fingers  and  trailed  along  the  ground  in  a  crim 
son  line.  The  sun  dropped  toward  the  west,  and  thunder 
began  to  roll:  still  they  worked  on!  Their  gentlemen-in- 
charge  begged  them  to  start  again,  and  at  last  they  rose 
up  petulantly  to  go;  but  they  had  stayed  too  late.  The 
storm  burst.  Lightning  flashed;  thunder  roared;  rain 
fell  in  torrents;  and — strange  to  see — the  poppy  petals 
melted,  so  that  the  long  chain  of  flowers  turned  to  a  liquid 
stream,  red  as  a  river  of  blood.  The  princesses  were 
frightened  and  began  to  cry.  Their  tears  fell  into  the 
crimson  flood.  Captain  Devot,  who  seemed  in  his  dream 
to  be  one  of  the  ladies'  attendants,  jumped  from  his  horse 
to  pick  up  the  princesses'  tears,  which  turned  into  little, 
rattling  stones  as  they  fell.  With  that,  he  waked.  The 
princesses  were  gone — "all  but  Victoire"  he  said,  smiling, 
"she  shall  stay  with  us!  The  thunder  was  the  thunder 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  291 

of  German  guns.  The  poppies  were  there — and  the  blood 
was  there.  So  also  were  the  stones  that  had  been  the 
princesses'  tears.  They  lie  all  along  the  Chemin  des 
Dames  to  this  day.  I  gathered  some  for  my  wife,  and  if 
you  like  she  will  give  a  few  to  you,  ladies — souvenirs  of 
the  Ladies' Way!" 

Of  course  we  did  like;  so  Dierdre  and  I  each  have  a 
small,  glistening  gray  stone,  with  a  faint  splash  of  red 
upon  it.  I  would  not  sell  mine  for  a  pearl ! 

Father  Beckett  proposed  to  take  his  wife  back  to  Paris; 
but  while  she  rested  after  the  fever,  industriously  she  built 
up  another  plan.  You  remember,  Padre,  my  telling  you 
that  the  Becketts  were  negotiating  for  a  chdteau,  before 
they  arrived  in  France  to  visit  their  son?  When  they 
heard  that  Jim  had  fallen,  they  no  longer  cared  to  live 
in  this  chateau  (which  was  to  let,  furnished),  nevertheless, 
they  felt  bound  in  honour  to  stick  to  their  bargain.  Well, 
at  Soissons,  Mother  Beckett  had  it  "borne  in  upon  her" 
that  Jim  would  wish  his  father  and  mother  to  stay  at  the 
old  house  he  had  loved  and  coveted  for  himself. 

"I  can't  go  back  across  the  sea  and  settle  down  at  home 
while  this  war  goes  on!"  she  said.  "Home  just  wouldn't 
be  home.  It's  too  far  away  from  Jim.  I  don't  mean  from 
his  body"  she  went  on.  "His  body  isn't  Jim,  I  know! 
I've  thought  that  out,  and  made  myself  realize  the  truth 
of  it.  But  it's  Jim's  spirit  I'm  talking  about,  Father.  I 
guess  his  soul — Jim  himself — won't  care  to  be  flitting 
back  and  forth,  crossing  the  ocean  to  visit  us,  while  his 
friends  are  fighting  in  France  and  Belgium,  to  save  the 
world.  I  know  my  boy  well  enough  to  be  sure  he's  too 


292  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

strong  to  change  much  just  because  he  is  what  some  folks 
call  'dead';  and  he'd  like  us  to  be  near.  Paris  won't 
do  for  me.  No  city  would.  I'd  be  too  restless  there-. 
Do,  do  let's  go  and  live  till  the  end  of  the  war  in  Jim's 
chateau!  That's  what  he's  wanting.  I  feel  it  every 
minute." 

I  was  in  the  room  when  she  made  this  appeal  to  her 
husband,  and  I  longed  to  put  into  their  hearts  the  thought 
Jack  Curtis  had  put  into  mine.  But,  of  course,  I  dared 
not.  It  would  have  been  cruel.  Jack  Curtis  had  nothing 
to  go  upon  except  his  impression — the  same  impression  I 
myself  have  at  times,  of  Jim's  vital  presence  in  the  midst 
of  life.  I  have  it  often,  though  never  quite  so  strongly 
as  that  night  in  Paris,  when  he  would  not  let  me  kill 
myself. 

It  wasn't  difficult  to  make  Father  Beckett  consent  to 
the  new  plan.  He  told  me  afterward  that  his  own  great 
wish  was  to  find  Jim's  grave,  when  the  end  of  the  war 
would  make  search  possible.  Beckett  interests  were 
being  safeguarded  in  America.  They  would  not  suffer 
much  from  his  absence.  Besides,  business  no  longer 
seemed  vitally  important  to  him  as  of  old.  Money  mat 
tered  little  now  that  Jim  was  gone. 

He  would  have  abandoned  his  visit  to  the  British  front, 
since  Mother  Beckett  could  not  have  the  glimpse  half 
promised  by  the  authorities.  But  she  would  not  let  him 
give  it  up.  "Molly"  would  take  good  care  of  her.  When 
she  could  move,  we  would  all  go  to  Amiens.  There  she 
and  I  could  be  safely  left  for  a  few  days,  while  Brian  and 
Father  Beckett  were  at  the  front.  As  for  Julian 
O'Farrell  and  Dierdre,  at  first  it  appeared  as  if  the  little 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  293 

lady  had  left  them  out  of  her  calculations.  But  I  might 
have  known — knowing  her — that  she  wouldn't  do  that 
for  long. 

She  believed  implicitly  in  their  Red  Cross  mission, 
which,  ever  since  the  little  car  joined  the  big  one,  has  been 
constantly  aided  with  Beckett  money  and  Beckett  in 
fluence.  Julian  would,  she  supposed,  wish  to  "carry  on 
his  good  work,"  when  our  trip  came  to  an  end.  But  as 
he  had  no  permission  for  the  British  front  (he  hadn't  cared 
to  make  himself  conspicuous  to  the  British  authorities 
by  asking  for  it!)  he  and  Dierdre  might  like  to  keep  us 
two  women  company  at  Amiens.  By  the  time  we  wanted 
to  leave,  Mother  Beckett  confidently  expected  "Jim's 
chateau"  to  be  ready  for  occupation,  and  Dierdre  must 
visit  "us"  there  indefinitely,  while  her  brother  dutifully 
continued  distributing  supplies  to  hospitals  and  refugees. 
("Us,"  according  to  Mother  Beckett,  meant  Brian  and  me, 
Father  Beckett  and  herself,  for  we  now  constituted  the 
"family"!)  Telegrams  had  given  the  Paris  house-letting 
agency  carte  blanche  for  hasty  preparations  at  the  Chdteau 
d'Andelle,  where  several  old  servants  had  been  kept  on  as 
caretakers:  and  being  a  spoiled  American  millionairess, 
the  little  lady  was  confident  that  a  week  would  see  the 
house  aired,  warmed,  staffed,  and  altogether  habitable. 

"You  wouldn't  object  to  having  that  poor  little  girl 
stay  with  us,  would  you,  dear?"  Mother  Beckett  asked 
me,  patting  my  hand  when  she  had  revealed  her  ideas 
concerning  the  O'Farrells. 

"Oh,  no, "I  answered,  looking  straight  into  her  inquiring 
eyes,  and  trying  not  to  change  colour.  "But  you 
shouldn't  speak  as  if  I  had  any  right " 


294  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

"You  have  every  right!"  she  cut  me  short.  "Aren't 
you  our  daughter?  " 

"I  love  you  and  Father  Beckett  enough  to  be  your 
daughter,"  I  said.  "  But  that  gives  me  no  right " 

"It  does.  Your  love  for  us,  and  ours  for  you.  I  don't 
believe  we  could  have  lived  through  our  sorrow  if  it  hadn't 
been  for  you  and  Brian.  He  saved  our  reason  by  showing 
us  what  Jim  would  want  us  to  do  for  the  good  of  others. 
And  he  taught  us  what  we  couldn't  seem  to  realize  fully, 
through  religion,  that  death  doesn't  count.  Now,  since 
I've  been  ill,  I  guess  you've  saved  my  life.  And  much  as 
I  want  to  see  Jim,  I  want  even  more  to  live  for  Father. 
He  needs  me — and  we  both  need  you  and  Brian.  You 
two  belong  to  us,  just  as  if  you'd  been  given  to  us  by  Jim. 
We  want  to  do  what's  best  for  you  both.  I  thought,  for 
Brian,  it  would  be  good  perhaps  to  have  Dierdre " 

"Perhaps,"  I  murmured,  when  she  paused. 

"You're  not  sure?  I  wasn't  at  first.  I  mean,  I  wasn't 
sure  she  was  good  enough.  But  since  the  night  when  she 
threw  herself  in  front  of  him  to  keep  off  the  dog,  I  saw  she 
cared.  Maybe  she  didn't  know  it  herself  till  then.  But 
she's  known  ever  since.  You've  only  to  see  the  way  she 
looks  at  him.  And  she's  growing  more  and  more  of  a 
woman — Brian's  influence,  and  the  influence  of  her  love — 
such  a  great  influence,  dear!  It  might  be  for  his  happi 
ness,  if " 

"I  don't  think  Brian  would  marry  Dierdre  or  any  girl, 
unless  his  sight  came  back,"  I  said.  "He's  often  told  me 
he  wouldn't  marry." 

"Was  that  before  he  went  to  Paris  with  the  O'Farrells? 
Things  have  been  rather  different  since  then — and  a  good 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  295 

deed  different  since  the  night  we  met  Jack  Curtis  with 
Sirius." 

"  I  know,"  I  admitted.  "  But  if  Brian  wanted  to  change 
his  mind  about  marrying,  he  couldn't.  Neither  he  nor 
Dierdre  O'Farrell  have  a  penny " 

"Brian's  got  as  much  as  we  have,"  the  dear  woman 
assured  me. 

"Do  you  think  he'd  take  your  money  to  marry  on? 
No,  dearest!  Brian's  ve::y  unworldly.  So  far,  he  hasn't 
worried  about  finances  for  the  present.  The  future  is 
different.  If  he  doesn't  get  back  his  sight " 

"But  he  will— he  must!"  she  urged.  "That  great 
specialist  you  saw  in  Paris  gave  him  hope.  And  then 
there's  the  other  one  that  your  doctor  friend  recom 
mended ." 

"He's  somewhere  at  the  front.  We  can't  get  at  him 
now." 

"We'll  get  at  him  later,"  Mother  Beckett  persisted. 
"In  the  meantime — let's  give  those  two  hearts  the  chance 
to  draw  together,  if  it's  best  for  them." 

I  could  not  go  on  objecting.  One  can't,  for  long,  when 
that  little  angel  of  a  woman  wants  a  thing — she  who  never 
wants  anything  for  herself,  only  for  others !  But  I  thought 
Fate  might  step  between  Brian  and  Dierdre — Fate,  in 
the  shape  of  Puck.  I  wasn't  at  all  sure  that  Julian  O'Far 
rell  could  be  contented  to  leave  his  sister  and  continue 
his  own  wanderings.  The  Red  Cross  taxi  had  in  truth 
been  only  a  means  to  an  end.  I  didn't  fancy  that  his 
devotion  to  duty  would  carry  him  far  from  the  Chateau 
d'Andelle  while  Dierdre  was  comfortably  installed  in  it. 
Unless  he  were  invited  to  embusquer  himself  there,  in  our 


296  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

society,  I  expected  a  crash.  Which  shows  how  little  I 
knew  my  Julian ! 

When  the  plan  was  officially  suggested  to  him,  he  agreed 
as  if  with  enthusiasm.  It  was  only  when  he'd  consented 
to  Dierdre's  visit  at  the  chateau  on  the  other  side  of  the 
Somme,  and  promised  to  drop  in  now  and  then  himself 
on  his  way  somewhere  else,  that  he  allowed  himself  a 
second  thought.  To  attract  attention  to  it,  he  started, 
ran  his  hand  through  his  hair,  and  stopped  in  the  middle 
of  a  sentence.  "I  am  heaven's  own  fool!"  he  exclaimed. 

Of  course  Father  Beckett  wanted  to  know  why.  (This 
was  two  days  before  we  started  for  Amiens.)  Julian 
"registered  reluctance."  Father  Beckett  persisted,  and 
drew  forth  the  information  that  Julian  might  have  to  cut 
short  his  career  as  a  ministering  Red  Cross  angel.  "If 
it  hadn't  been  for  you,"  he  said,  "my  funds  and  my 
supplies  would  have  run  short  before  this.  You've 
helped  me  carry  on.  But  I'm  getting  pretty  close  to 
the  bone  again  now,  I'm  afraid.  A  bit  closer  and  I  shall! 
have  to  settle  down  and  give  music  lessons.  That's  all 
I'm  fit  for  in  future!  And  Dierdre  wouldn't  want  me 
to  set  up  housekeeping  alone.  Vftiile  I'm  on  this  Red 
Cross  job  it's  all  right,  but " 

Of  course  Father  Beckett  broke  in  to  say  that  there  was 
no  question  of  not  carrying  on.  Money  should  be  forth 
coming  for  supplies  as  long  as  Julian  felt  inclined  to  drive 
the  Red  Cross  taxi  from  one  scene  of  desolation  and  dis 
tress  to  another.  Holidays  must  be  frequent,  and  all 
spent  at  the  Chateau  d'Andelle.  Let  the  future  decide 
itself! 

So  matters  were  settled — on  the  surface.     Julian  was 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  297 

ready  to  pose  before  an  admiring  audience  as  the  self- 
sacrificing  hero,  giving  all  his  time  and  energy  to  a  noble 
cause.  Only  his  sister  and  I  knew  that  he  was  the  villain 
of  the  piece,  and  for  different  reasons  neither  of  us  could 
explain  the  mistake  about  his  role.  He  was  sure  of  us 
both;  impudently,  aggravatingly,  yet  (I  can't  help  it, 
Padre!)  amusingly  sure  of  me.  He  tried  to  "isolate" 
me,  as  if  I'd  been  a  microbe  while  we  were  still  at  Soissons, 
and  again  just  after  Father  Beckett  and  Brian  went  away 
from  Amiens  in  the  big  gray  car.  There  was  something, 
something  very  special  that  he  wished  to  say  to  me,  I 
could  tell  by  his  eyes.  But  I  contrived  to  thwart  him. 
I  never  left  Mother  Beckett  for  a  moment ! 

The  first  day  at  Amiens  it  was  easy  to  keep  out  of  his 
way  altogether,  for  I  was  nurse  as  well  as  friend,  and  my 
dear  little  invalid  was  worn  out  after  the  journey  from 
Soissons.  She  asked  nothing  better  than  to  stop  in  her 
room.  The  next  day,  however,  exciting  news  acted 
upon  her  like  a  tonic.  The  Amiens  address  had  been 
wired  to  Paris,  and  in  addition  to  a  mass  of  letters  (mostly 
for  Father  Beckett)  there  was  a  telegram  from  the  Chateau 
d'Andelle,  despatched  by  an  agency  messenger,  who  had 
been  sent  to  Normandy.  All  was  going  well.  The  house 
would  be  ready  on  the  date  named.  Two  large  boxes 
from  the  Ritz  had  safely  arrived  by  grande  vitesse. 

"Darling  Jimmy's  own  things!"  Mother  Beckett 
explained  to  me.  "Do  you  remember  my  telling  you 
we'd  brought  over  to  France  the  treasures  out  of  his  den 
at  home?" 

I  did  remember.  (Do  I  ever  forget  anything  she  says 
about  Jim?) 


298  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

"They  were  to  be  a  surprise  for  him  when  he  came  to 
see  us,"  his  mother  went  on,  tears  misting  the  blueness  of 
her  eyes.  "Not  furniture,  you  know,  but  just  the  little 
things  he  loved  best  in  his  rooms:  some  he  had  when  he 
was  a  child,  and  others  when  he  was  growing  up — and  the 
picture  your  brother  painted.  When  we  heard — the 
news — and  knew  we  shouldn't  see  our  boy  again  in  this 
world,  I  couldn't  bear  to  open  the  boxes — though  I  was 
longing  to  cry  over  his  dear  treasures.  They've  been 
stored  at  the  Ritz  ever  since.  But  the  first  thing  I  asked 
Father  to  do  when  we  decided  the  other  day  to  live  in 
Jim's  chateau,  after  all — was  to  wire  for  the  boxes  to  be 
sent  there.  I  didn't  suppose  they'd  arrive  so  soon — in 
war  time.  Dear  me,  I  can  hardly  wait  to  start,  now! 
I  feel  as  strong  as  a  girl." 

To  prove  this — or  because  she  was  restless — she  begged 
to  be  taken  out  in  a  cab  to  see  the  town,  especially  the 
cathedral,  which  Brian  had  told  her  was  the  largest  in 
Europe  except  St.  Peter's  in  Rome,  St.  Sophia  in  Con 
stantinople,  and  something  in  Cologne  which  she  didn't 
want  to  remember!  Julian  O'Farrell  and  his  sister  must 
go  with  us,  of  course.  It  wouldn't  be  kind  to  leave  them 
to  do  their  sightseeing  alone.  Besides,  Julian  was  so 
good-natured,  and  said  such  funny  things  it  would  be 
pleasant  to  have  his  society. 

This  arrangement  made  it  difficult  for  me  to  glue  myself 
to  Mother  Beckett's  side.  Now  and  then  she  insisted 
upon  getting  out  of  the  cab  to  try  her  strength,  and 
Dierdre  would  obediently  have  taken  her  in  tow,  in  order 
to  hand  me  over  to  "Jule,"  if  I  hadn't  been  mulishly 
obstinate.  I  quite  enjoyed  manoeuvring  to  use  my  dear 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  299 

tittle  invalid  as  a  sort  of  standing  barrage  against  enemy 
attacks,  and  even  though  Brian  and  I  were  parted  for  the 
first  time  since  his  blindness,  I  felt  almost  absurdly  cheerful. 
It  was  so  good  to  know  that  Mother  Beckett  was  out  of 
danger,  and  that  it  was  I  who  had  helped  to  drag  her  out! 
Besides,  after  all  the  stricken  towns  that  have  saddened 
our  eyes,  it  was  enlivening  to  be  in  one  (as  Mother  Beckett 
said  at  Compiegne)  with  "whole  houses."  In  contrast, 
good  St.  Firmin's  ancient  city  looks  almost  as  gay  as  Paris. 
Our  hotel  with  its  pleasant  garden  and  the  fine  shops — 
(where  it  seems  you  can  still  buy  every  fascinating  thing 
from  newest  jewellery  and  oldest  curiosities,  to  Amiens' 
special  "roc"  chocolates) — the  long,  arboured  boulevards, 
the  cobbled  streets,  the  quaint  blue  and  pink  houses  of  the 
suburbs,  and  the  poplar-lined  walk  by  the  Somme,  all,  all 
have  the  friendliest  air!  Despite  the  crowds  of  soldiers 
in  khaki  and  horizon  blue  who  fill  the  streets  and  cafes, 
the  place  seems  outside  war.  Even  the  stacked  sandbags 
walling  the  west  front  and  the  side  portals  of  the  grandest 
cathedral  in  France  suggest  comfortable  security  rather 
than  fear.  The  jackdaws  and  pigeons  that  used  to 
be  at  home  in  the  carvings,  camp  contentedly  among 
the  bags,  or  walk  in  the  neglected  grass  where  sleep 
the  dead  of  long  ago.  I  didn't  want  to  remember  just 
then,  or  let  any  one  else  remember,  that  twenty  miles  away 
were  the  trenches  and  thousands  of  the  dead  of  to-day ! 

Never  can  Amiens  have  been  such  a  kaleidoscope  of 
colourful  animation  since  Henri  II  of  France  and  Edward 
VI  of  England  signed  the  treaty  of  peace  here,  with  trains 
of  diplomatists  and  soldiers  of  church  and  state  and  digni 
fied  rejoicings ! 


300  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

It  wasn't  until  we  were  inside  the  cathedral  that  I  forgot 
my  manoeuvrings.  The  soft,  rich  light  gave  such  a  bizarre 
effect  to  the  sandbags  protecting  the  famous  choir  carv 
ings,  that  I  was  all  eyes  for  a  moment:  and  during  that 
moment  Julian  must  have  signed  to  his  sister  to  decoy 
Mother  Beckett  away  from  me.  When  I  hauled  my  soul 
down  from  the  soaring  arches  as  one  strikes  a  flag,  there 
was  Puck  at  my  side  and  there  were  Mother  Beckett  and 
Dierdre  disappearing  behind  sandbag-hillocks,  in  the 
direction  of  the  celebrated  Cherub. 

"I  suppose  you  want  me  jolly  well  to  understand," 
said  Puck,  smiling,  "that  even  if  your  brother  Brian  and 
my  sister  Dare  are  fools  over  each  other,  you  won't  be 
fooled  into  forgiving  a  poor,  broken- voiced  Pierrot?  " 

"I've  nothing  to  forgive  you  for,  personally,"  I  said. 
"Only " 

"  Only,  you  don't  want  to  be  friends?  " 

"No,  I  don't  want  to  be  friends,"  I  echoed.  "Why 
can't  you  be  content  with  being  treated  decently  before 
people,  instead  of  following  me  about,  trying  always  to 
bring  upon  yourself " 

"A  lamp  might  ask  that  question  of  a  moth." 

I  laughed.  "You're  less  like  a  moth  than  any  creature 
I  ever  met!" 

"You  don't  believe  I'm  sincere." 

"Do  moths  specialize  in  sincerity  in  the  insect  world?" 

"Yes,"  Puck  said,  more  gravely  than  usual.  "Come 
to  think  of  it,  that's  just  what  they  do.  They  risk  their 
lives  for  the  light  they  love.  I  'follow  you  about,'  as  you 
put  it,  because  I  love  you  and  want  to  persuade  you  that 
we're  birds  of  a  feather,  made  for  each  other  by  nature 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  301 

• 

and  fate  and  our  mutual  behaviour.  We  belong  together 
in  life.5' 

"Do  you  really  believe  you  can  blackmail  me  into  a 
partnership?"  I  turned  at  bay.  "You  must  have  seen 
that  I  wanted  to  keep  out  of  your  way " 

"Oh,  I  saw  all  right.  You  thought  that  I  thought 
Amiens  would  be  my  great  chance,  and  you  made  up 
your  mind  it  shouldn't  be  if  you  could  help  it.  Well,  you 
won't  be  able  to  help  it  much  longer,  because  I Ve  got  some 
thing  you  want,  and  you  can't  get  it  except  through  me." 

"I  doubt  very  much  that  I  could  want  anything  you 
have,"  I  said. 

"  Give  your  imagination  wings." 

"You  are  always  teasing  me  to  guess  things  I  don't  care 
to  guess!" 

"Here  comes  Dierdre  back  with  Mrs.  Beckett  so  I 
won't  worry  you  to  guess.  I've  got  a  message  from  the 
Wandering  Jew.  Do  you  want  it,  or  don't  you?  " 


CHAPTER  XXVHI 

IF  JULIAN  had  suddenly  popped  down  an  apple  on 
the  top  of  my  head,  a  la  Gessler  and  the  son  of  Wil 
liam  Tell,  and  thereupon  proceeded  to  shoot  it  off,  I 
could  have  been  no  more  amazed.  For  once  he  outflanked 
me,  caught  me  completely  off  my  guard!  I  saw  by  the 
impish  gleam  in  his  eye  how  delighted  he  was  with  himself . 

"Yes  or  no,  please;  quick!"  he  fired  the  next  volley  as  I 
stood  speechless. 

"Yes!"  I  gasped.  "I  do  want  the  message — if  it's  for 
me.  But  why  should  he  send  word  through  you  ?  " 

"He  didn't.  I  caught  it  as  I  might  catch  a  homing 
carrier-pigeon.  You  know,  my  motto  is  'All's  fair  in  love 
and  war.'  In  my  case,  both  exist — your  fault!  Besides, 
what  I  did  was  for  your  good." 

"What  did  you  do — what  did  you  dare  to  do?  " 

"Dare!"  Puck  mimicked  my  foolish  fury.  "  'Dare'  is 
such  a  melodramatic  word  from  you  to  me.  I  can't  tell 
you  now  what  I  did,  or  the  message — no  time.  But  I'm 
in  as  much  of  a  hurry  as  you  are.  When  can  I  see  you 
alone?" 

I  hesitated,  because  it  would  be  like  him  to  cheat  me  with 
some  trick,  and  chuckle  at  my  rage.  I  couldn't  see  how  a 
message  from  Paul  Herter  for  me  had  reached  Julian 
OTarrell,  unless  he'd  intercepted  a  letter.  It  seemed  far 
more  likely  that  Puck  was  romancing,  yet  I  felt  in  my 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  303 

bones  and  heart  and  solar  plexus  that  he  wasn't!  I 
simply  had  to  know — and  in  a  flurry,  before  Mother 
Beckett  and  Dierdre  were  upon  us,  I  said,  "This  after 
noon,  at  three,  when  Mrs.  Beckett  is  having  her  nap. 
I'll  meet  you  in  the  garden  of  the  hotel." 

Though  I  dash  along  with  this  story  of  mine,  Padre,  as  if 
I  went  straight  on  describing  the  scene  between  Julian  and 
me  from  beginning  to  end,  without  a  break,  it  isn't  really 
so.  I've  been  interrupted  more  than  once,  and  may  be 
again;  but  I  shall  tell  you  everything  that's  happened  since 
we  came  to  Amiens,  as  if  I  wrote  consecutively.  You 
can  understand  better  in  that  way,  and  help  me  with  your 
strength  and  love,  through  your  understanding,  as  I  feel 
you  do  help,  whenever  I  make  you  my  confessions.  Since 
I've  begun  to  write  you,  as  in  old  days  when  you  were  in 
the  flesh,  I've  felt  your  advice  come  to  me  in  electric 
flashes.  I'm  sure  I  don't  just  imagine  this.  It's  real,  dear 
Padre,  and  makes  all  the  difference  to  me  that  a  rope  flung 
out  over  dark  waters  would  make  to  a  drowning  man. 

At  three  o'clock  I  was  in  the  garden.  It  was  cold,  but 
I  didn't  care.  Besides,  I  was  too  excited  to  feel  the  chill. 
I  wanted  to  be  out  of  doors  because  there  would  be  people 
about,  and  no  chance  for  Julian  to  try  and  kiss  my  hand — 
no  vulgar  temptation  for  me  to  box  his  ears ! 

He  was  already  waiting,  strolling  up  and  down,  smoking 
a  cigarette  which  he  threw  away  at  sight  of  me.  Evidently 
he'd  decided  on  this  occasion  not  to  be  frivolous ! 

I  selected  a  seat  safely  commanded  by  many  windows. 
"Now! "  I  said,  sitting  down  close  to  one  end  of  the  bench. 

Julian  took  the  other  end,  but  sat  gazing  straight  at  me 
without  a  word.  There  was  an  odd  expression  on  his 


304  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

face.  I  didn't  know  how  to  read  it,  or  to  guess  what  was 
to  come.  But  there  was  nothing  Puckish  about  the  enemy 
at  that  moment.  He  looked  nervous — almost  as  if  he  were 
afraid.  I  thought  of  something  you  told  me  when  I  was 
quite  small,  Padre:  how  the  Romans  of  old  used  to  send 
packets  of  good  news  bound  with  laurel,  or  of  bad  news, 
tied  with  the  plumes  of  ravens.  I  stared  into  Julian  O'Far- 
rell's  stare,  and  wished  that  he'd  stuck  a  green  leaf  or  a 
black  feather  in  his  buttonhole  to  prepare  my  mind. 

"Yes — now!"  he  echoed  at  last,  as  if  he'd  suddenly 
waked  up  to  my  challenge.  "Well,  a  man  blew  into  this 
hotel  last  night — a  lame  Frenchman  with  a  face  like  a 
boiled  ghost.  I  was  writing  an  important  telegram  (I'll 
tell  you  about  that  later),  when  I  heard  this  person  ask  the 
concierge  if  a  Miss  Mary  O'Malley  was  staying  in  the 
house.  That  made  me  open  my  eyes — because  he  was  of 
the  lower  bourgeois  class,  and  hadn't  the  air  of  being — so 
to  speak — in  your  set.  It  seemed  as  if  'twas  up  to  me  to 
tackle  him;  so  I  did.  I  introduced  myself  as  a  friend  of 
Miss  O'Malley 's,  travelling  with  her  party.  I  explained 
that  Miss  O'Malley  was  taking  care  of  an  old  lady  who'd 
been  ill  and  was  tired  after  a  long  journey.  I  asked  if  he'd 
like  to  give  a  message.  He  said  he  would.  But  first 
he  began  to  explain  who  he  was:  an  Alsatian  by  birth, 
named  Muller,  corporal  in  an  infantry  regiment;  been  a 
prisoner  in  Germany,  I  forget  how  long — taken  wounded; 
leg  amputated;  and  fitted  with  artificial  limb  in  a  Boche 
hospital;  just  exchanged  for  a  grand  bless6  Boche,  and  re 
patriated  ;  been  in  Paris  on  important  business,  apparently 
with  the  War  Office — sounded  more  exciting  than  he 
looked!  After  I'd  prodded  the  chap  tactfully,  he  came 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  305 

back  to  the  subject  of  the  message:  asked  me  if  I  knew 
Doctor  Paul  Herter.  I  said  I  did  know  him.  Herter 
mended  up  my  sister  after  an  air  raid.  I  inquired  politely 
where  Herter  was,  but  Muller  evaded  that  question.  He 
led  me  to  suppose  he'd  seen  Herter  in  Paris;  but  putting 
two  and  two  together,  I  got  a  different  idea — altogether 
different." 

Julian  paused  on  those  words,  and  tried  piercingly  to 
read  my  thoughts.  But  I  made  my  face  expressionless  as 
the  front  of  a  shut-up  house,  with  "to  let  unfurnished" 
over  the  door. 

"I  expect  you've  guessed  what  my  idea  was,  and  I  bet 
you  know  for  a  fact  whether  I  was  on  the  right  track,"  he 
ventured. 

"The  only  thing  so  far  which  I  know  for  a  fact,"  I 
said,  "  is  that  you  had  no  right  to  talk  to  the  man  at  all. 
You  should  have  sent  for  me  at  once." 

"  You  couldn't  have  come  if  I  had.  Dierdre  had  told  me 
about  five  minutes  before  that  you  were  putting  Mrs. 
Beckett  to  bed,  and  giving  her  a  massage  treatment  with  a 
rub-down  of  alcohol." 

"Why  didn't  you  ask  the  man  to  wait?  " 

"I  did  ask  him  if  he  could  wait,  and  he  said  he  couldn't. 
He'd  stopped  at  Amiens  on  purpose  to  deliver  his  message, 
and  he  had  to  catch  a  train  on  to  Allonville,  to  where  it 
seems  his  people  have  migrated." 

"You  asked  him  that  because  you  hoped  he  couldn't 
wait — and  if  he  could,  you'd  have  found  some  reason  for 
not  letting  me  meet  him.  You  thought  you  saw  a  way  of 
getting  a  new  hold  over  me ! " 

"  Some  such  dramatic  idea  may  have  flitted  through  my 


S06  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

head.  I've  often  warned  you,  I  am  dramatic!  I  enjoy 
dramatizing  life  for  myself  and  others !  But  honestly,  he 
couldn't  wait  for  you  to  finish  with  Mrs.  Beckett.  I  know 
too  well  how  devoted  you  are  to  think  you'd  have  left  the 
old  lady  before  you'd  soothed  her  off  to  sleep." 

"Where  is  the  message?"  I  snatched  Julian  back  to  the 
point. 

"  In  my  brain  at  present." 

"You  destroyed  the  letter?  " 

"There  wasn't  a  letter.  Oh,  make  grappling  hooks  of 
your  lovely  eyes  if  you  like !  You  can't  drag  anything  out 
of  me  that  doesn't  exist.  Herter's  message  to  you  was 
verbal  for  safety.  That  was  one  thing  set  me  thinking  the 
men  hadn't  met  in  Paris.  Muller  admitted  going  to  a 
bank  to  get  your  address.  The  people  there  didn't  want 
to  give  it,  but  when  he  explained  that  it  was  important, 
and  mentioned  where  he  was  going,  they  saw  that  he 
might  have  time  to  meet  you  at  Amiens  on  his  way  home. 
So  they  told  him  where  you  were.  Now,  there's  no  good 
your  being  cross  with  me.  What's  done  is  done,  and 
can't  be  undone.  I  acted  for  the  best — my  best;  and  in 
my  opinion  for  your  best.  Listen!  Here's  the  message, 
word  for  word.  You'll  see  that  a  few  hours'  delay  for  me  to 
think  it  over  could  make  no  difference  to  any  one  con 
cerned.  Paul  Herter,  from  somewhere — but  maybe  not 
'somewhere  in  France' — sends  you  a  verbal  greeting,  be 
cause  it  was  more  sure  of  reaching  you — not  coming  to 
grief  en  route.  He  reminds  you  that  he  asked  for  an  address 
in  case  he  had  something  of  interest  to  communicate.  He 
hoped  to  find  the  grave  of  a  man  you  loved.  Instead,  he 
thinks  he  has  found  that  there  is  no  grave — that  the  man 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  307 

is  above  ground  and  well.  He  isn't  sure  yet  whether  he 
may  be  deceived  by  a  likeness  of  names.  But  he's  sure 
enough  to  say :  'Hope.'  If  he's  right  about  the  man,  you 
may  get  further  news  almost  any  minute  by  way  of  Switzer 
land  or  somewhere  neutral.  That's  all.  Yet  it's  enough 
to  show  you  what  danger  you're  in.  If  Herter  hadn't 
been  practically  certain,  he  wouldn't  have  sent  any 
message.  He'd  have  waited.  Evidently  you  made 
him  believe  that  you  loved  Jim  Beckett,  so  he  wanted  to 
prepare  your  mind  by  degrees.  I  suppose  he  imagined  a 
shock  of  joy  might  be  dangerous.  Well,  you  ought  to 
thank  Herter  just  the  same  for  sparing  you  a  worse 
sort  of  shock.  And  I  thank  him,  too,  for  it  gives  me 
a  great  chance — the  chance  to  save  you.  Mary,  the 
time's  come  for  you  and  me  to  fade  off  the  Beckett  scene — 
together." 

I  listened  without  interrupting  him  once:  at  first,  be 
cause  I  was  stunned,  and  a  thousand  thoughts  beat  dully 
against  my  brain  without  finding  their  way  in,  as  gulls 
beat  their  wings  against  the  lamp  of  a  lighthouse;  at  last, 
because  I  wished  to  hear  Julian  O'Farrell  to  the  very  end 
before  I  answered.  I  fancied  that  in  answering  I  could 
better  marshal  my  own  thoughts. 

He  misunderstood  my  silence — I  expected  him  to  do 
that,  but  I  cared  not  at  all — so,  when  he  had  paused  and 
still  I  said  nothing,  he  went  on:  "Of  course  I — for  the 
best  of  reasons — know  you  didn't  love  Jim  Beckett,  and 
couldn't  love  him." 

Hearing  those  words  of  his,  suddenly  I  knew  just  what  I 
wanted  to  say.  I'd  been  like  an  amateur  actress  wild 
with  stage  fright,  who'd  forgotten  her  part  till  the  right 


!308  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

cue  came.  "There  you're  mistaken,"  I  contradicted  him. 
"I  did  love  Jim  Beckett." 

Julian  gave  an  excited,  brutal  laugh.  "Tell  that  to 
the  Marines,  my  child,  not  to  yours  truly !  You  never  set 
eyes  on  Jim  Beckett.  He  never  went  near  your  hospital. 
You  never  came  near  the  training-camp.  You  seem  to 
have  forgotten  that  I  was  on  the  spot." 

"  I  met  him  before  the  war,"  I  said. 

"What's  that?"  Julian  didn't  know  whether  to  believe 
me  or  not,  but  his  forehead  flushed  to  the  black  line  of  his 
low-growing  hair. 

"I  never  told  you,  because  there  was  no  need  to  tell," 
I  went  on.  "  But  it's  true.  I  fell  in  love  with  Jim  Beckett 
then,  and — he  cared  for  me.9' 

For  the  first  time  I  realized  that  Julian  O'Farrell's 
"love"  wasn't  all  pretence.  His  flush  died,  and  left  him 
pale  with  that  sick,  greenish-olive  pallor  which  men  of 
Latin  blood  have  when  they're  near  fainting.  He  opened 
his  lips,  but  did  not  speak,  because,  I  think,  he  could  not. 
If  I'd  wanted  revenge  for  what  he  made  me  suffer  when  he 
first  thrust  himself  into  my  life,  I  had  it  then;  but  to  my 
own  surprise  I  felt  no  pleasure  in  striking  him.  Instead 
I  felt  vaguely  sorry,  though  very  distant  from  his  plans 
and  interests. 

"You — you  weren't  engaged  to  Beckett,  anyhow.  I'm 
sure  you  weren't,  or  you'd  have  had  nothing  to  worry 
about  when  Dierdre  and  I  turned  up,"  he  faced  me 
down. 

"No,  we  weren't  engaged,"  I  admitted.  "I — was  just 
as  much  of  a  fraud  as  you  meant  Dierdre  to  be  with  Father 
and  Mother  Beckett.  I've  no  excuse — except  that  it  was 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  309 

for  Brian's  sake.  But  that's  no  excuse  really,  and  Brian 
would  despise  me  if  he  knew." 

"There  you  are!"  Julian  burst  out,  with  a  relieved  sigh, 
a  more  natural  colour  creeping  back  to  his  face.  "If  Jim 
Beckett  let  you  go  before  the  war  without  asking  you  to 
marry  him,  I'm  afraid  his  love  couldn't  have  been  very 
deep — not  deep  enough  to  make  him  forgive  you  after  all 
this  time  for  deceiving  his  old  father  and  mother  the  way 
you  have.  My  God,  no!  In  spite  of  your  beauty,  he'd 
have  no  mercy  on  you ! " 

"That's  what  I  think,"  I  said.  "My  having  met  him, 
and  his  loving  me  a  little,  makes  what  I've  done  more 
shameful  than  if  I  'd  never  met  him  at  all." 

"  Then  you  see  why  you  must  get  away  as  quick  as  you 
can!"  urged  Julian,  his  eyes  lighting  as  he  drew  nearer  to 
me  on  the  garden  bench.  "Oh,  wait,  don't  speak  yet! 
Let  me  explain  my  plan.  There's  time  still.  You're 
thinking  of  Brian  before  yourself,  maybe.  But  he's  safe. 
The  Becketts  adore  him.  They  say  he  'saved  their 
reason.'  He  makes  the  mysticism  they're  always  groping 
for  seem  real  as  their  daily  bread.  He  puts  local  colour 
into  the  fourth  dimension  for  them!  They  can  never  do 
without  Brian  again.  All  that's  needed  is  for  him  to  pro 
pose  to  Dierdre.  I  know — you  think  he  won't,  no  matter 
how  he  feels.  But  he'll  have  missed  her  while  he's  away. 
She's  a  missable  little  thing  to  any  one  who  likes  her,  and 
she  can  tempt  him  to  speak  out  in  spite  of  himself  when  he 
gets  back.  I'll  see  to  it  that  she  does.  The  Becketts 
will  be  enchanted.  The  old  lady's  a  born  match-maker. 
We  can  announce  our  engagement  at  the  same  time.  While 
they  think  Jim's  dead,  they  won't  grudge  your  being  happy 


310  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

with  another  man,  especially  with  me.  They're  fond  of 
me!  And  you're  young.  Your  life's  before  you.  They're 
too  generous  to  stand  in  your  way.  They  look  on  you  as 
a  daughter,  and  Brian  as  a  son.  They'll  give  each  of 
you  a  handsome  wedding  present,  and  I  don't  doubt 
they'll  ask  Brian  to  live  with  them,  or  near  them,  if  he's  to 
be  blind  all  his  life.  He'll  have  everything  you  wanted 
to  win  for  him.  Even  when  they  get  into  communi 
cation  with  Jim,  and  find  out  the  truth  about  you,  why  I 
bet  anything  they'll  hide  it  from  Brian  to  keep  him 
happy!  Meanwhile  you  and  I  will  be  in  Paris,  safely 
married.  An  offer  came  to  me  yesterday  from  Jean  De 
Letzski — forwarded  on.  He's  getting  old.  He  wants 
me  to  take  on  some  of  his  pupils,  under  his  direction. 
I  telegraphed  back  my  acceptance.  That's  the  wire  1  was 
sending  when  Herter's  man  turned  up  last  night.  There 
was  a  question  last  summer  of  my  getting  this  chance  with 
De  Letzski,  but  I  hardly  dared  hope.  It's  a  great  stroke  of 
luck!  In  the  end  I  shall  stand  in  De  Letzski 's  shoes,  and 
be  a  rich  man — almost  as  rich  as  if  I'd  kept  my  place  as 
star  tenor  in  opera.  Even  at  the  beginning  you  and  I 
won't  be  poor.  I  count  on  a  wedding  gift  from  the 
Becketts  to  you  of  ten  thousand  dollars  at  least.  The  one 
way  to  save  our  reputations  is  to  marry  or  die  brilliantly. 
We  choose  the  former.  We  can  take  a  fine  apartment. 
We'll  entertain  the  most  interesting  set  in  Paris.  With 

your  looks  and  charm,  and  what's  left  of  my  voice,  we " 

"Oh,  stop!"  I  plunged  into  the  torrent  of  his  talk. 
"You  are  making  me — sick.  Do  you  really  believe  I'd 
accept  money  from  Jim  Beckett's  parents,  and — marry 
you?" 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  311 

He  stared,  round-eyed  and  hurt,  like  a  misunderstood 
child.  "But,"  he  blundered  on,  "don't  you  see  it's  the 
only  thing  you  can  do — anyhow,  to  marry  me?  If  you 
won't  accept  money,  why  it's  a  pity  and  a  waste,  but  I 
want  you  enough  to  snap  you  up  without  a  franc.  You 
must  marry  me,  dear.  Think  what  I  gave  up  for  you ! ' ' 

I  burst  out  laughing.     "  What  you  gave  up  for  me ! " 

"Yes.  Have  you  forgotten  already?  If  I  hadn't  fallen 
in  love  with  you  at  first  sight,  and  sacrificed  myself  and 
Dierdre  for  your  good,  wouldn't  my  sister  have  been  in 
your  place  now,  and  you  and  your  brother  Lord  knows 
where — in  prison  as  impostors,  perhaps?  " 

"According  to  you,  my  place  isn't  a  very  enviable  one  at 
present,"  I  said.  "But  I'd  rather  be  in  prison  for  life 
than  married  to  you.  What  a  vision — what  a  couple ! " 

"Oh,  I  know  having  you  for  my  wife  would  be  a  good 
deal  like  going  to  heaven  in  a  strong  mustard  plaster;  but 
I'd  stand  the  smart  for  the  sake  of  the  bliss.  If  you  won't 
marry  me  and  if  you  won't  take  money  from  the  Becketts, 
what  will  become  of  you?  That's  what  I  want  to  know! 
You  can't  stay  on  with  them.  You  daren't  risk  going  to 
their  Chateau  d'Andelle,  as  things  are  turning  out.  Her- 
ter's  certainly  in  Germany — ideal  man  for  a  spy!  If  he 
runs  across  Jim  Beckett,  as  he's  trying  to  do,  he'll  move 
heaven  and  earth  to  help  him  escape.  He  must  have  in 
fluence,  and  secret  ways  of  working  things.  He  may 
have  got  at  Jim  before  this  for  all  we  can  tell.  Muller 
let  it  leak  out  that  he  left  Herter — somewhere — a  week 
ago.  A  lot  •an  happen  in  a  week — to  a  Wandering  Jew. 
The  ground's  trembling  under  your  feet.  You'll  have  to 
skip  without  Brian,  without  money,  without " 


312  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

"I  shall  not  stir,"  I  said.  "I  can't  leave  Mrs.  Beckett, 
I  won't  leave  her!  The  only  way  I  can  atone  even  a 
little  bit,  is  to  stop  and  take  care  of  her  while  she  needs 
me,  no  matter  what  happens.  When  she  finds  out,  she 
won't  want  me  any  longer.  Then  I'll  go.  But  not 
before." 

We  glared  at  each  other  like  two  fencers  through  the 
veil  of  falling  dusk.  Suddenly  I  sprang  up  from  the  bench, 
remembering  that,  at  least,  I  could  escape  from  Julian,  if 
not  from  the  sword  of  Damocles.  But  he  caught  my  dress, 
and  held  me  fast. 

"What  if  I  tell  the  old  birds  the  whole  story  up  to  date?" 
he  blustered.  "  I  can,  you  know." 

"You  can.  Please  give  me  fair  warning  if  you're  going 
to— that's  aU  I  ask.  I'll  try  to  prepare  Mrs.  Beckett's 
mind  to  bear  the  shock.  She's  not  very  strong,  but " 

"If  I  don't  tell,  it  won't  be  because  of  her.  It  will  be 
for  you — always,  everything,  for  you!  But  I  haven't 
decided  yet.  I  don't  know  what  I  shall  do  yet.  I  must 
think.  You'll  have  to  make  the  best  of  that  compromise 
unless  you  change  your  mind." 

"  I  shall  not  change  my  mind,"  I  said. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

EER,  Padre,  when  I'd  broken  away  from  Julian, 
I  wondered  if  he  had  made  up  the  whole  story. 
The  cruel  trick  would  be  impishly  characteristic ! 
But  I  went  straight  to  the  concierge  to  ask  about  Muller. 
He  said  that  a  man  of  that  name  had  called  the  night  before, 
inquiring  for  me,  and  had  talked  with  "the  Monsieur  who 
looked  like  an  Italian."  This  practically  convinced  me 
that  Julian  hadn't  lied. 

If  only  I  could  get  direct  advice  from  you!  Do  try  to 
send  me  an  inspiration  of  what  to  do  for  the  best. 

My  first  impulse  was  to  give  Mother  Beckett  a  faint 
hint  of  hope.  But  I  dared  not  run  the  risk.  If  Paul 
Herter  proved  to  be  mistaken,  it  would  be  for  her  like 
losing  her  son  a  second  time,  and  the  dear  one's  strength 
might  not  be  equal  to  the  strain.  After  thinkmg  and  un- 
thinkimg  all  night,  I  decided  to  keep  silent  until  our  two 
men  returned  from  the  British  front.  Then,  perhaps,  I 
might  tell  Brian  of  the  message  from  Doctor  Paul,  and  ask 
his  opinion  about  speaking  to  Father  Beckett.  As  for 
myself,  I  resolved  not  to  make  any  confession,  unless  it 
were  certain  that  Jim  lived.  And  I'm  not  sure,  Padre, 
whether  that  decision  was  based  on  sheer,  selfish  coward 
ice,  or  whether  I  founded  it  partly  on  the  arguments  I 
presented  to  myself.  I  said  in  my  mind:  "If  it's  true 
that  everything  you  did  in  the  beginning  was  for  Brian 'a 

318 


314  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

good,  why  undo  it  all  at  the  most  critical  hour  of  his  life, 
when  perhaps  there  may  never  be  any  reason  to  speak?*' 
Also  I  said:  "Why  make  it  impossible  for  yourself  to  give 
Mother  Beckett  the  care  she  needs,  and  can  hardly  do 
without  yet?  Every  day  counts  with  her  now.  Why  not 
wait  unless  you  hear  again  more  definitely?  " 

The  annoying  part  of  a  specious  argument  is  that  there's 
always  some  truth  in  it,  and  it  seems  like  kind  advice  from 
wise  friends ! 

Anyhow,  I  did  wait.  Julian  made  no  further  appeal  to 
me,  and  I  felt  sure  that  he  said  nothing  to  Dierdre.  If  he 
had  taken  her  into  his  confidence,  I  should  have  known  by 
her  manner;  because,  from  the  shut-up,  night-flower  of  a 
girl  that  she  was,  she  has  rather  pathetically  opened  out 
for  me  into  a  daylight  flower.  All  this  since  she  came  of 
her  own  free  will  and  told  me  of  the  scene  in  the  chill 
boarding  house  salon  at  Soissons.  I  used  to  think  her  as 
secret  as  the  grave — and  deeper.  She  used  to  make  me 
"creep"  as  if  a  mouse  ran  over  mine,  by  the  way  her 
eyes  watched  me:  still  as  a  cat's  looking  into  the  fire.  If 
we  had  to  shake  hands,  she  used  to  present  me  with  a 
limp  little  bunch  of  cold  fingers,  which  made  me  long  to 
ask  what  the  deuce  she  wanted  me  to  do  with  them  ?  Now, 
because  I'm  Brian's  sister,  and  because  I'm  human  enough 
to  love  her  love  of  him,  the  flower-part  of  her  nature  sheds 
perfume  and  distils  honey  for  me:  the  cat-part  purrs;  the 
girl-part  warms.  The  creature  actually  deigns  to  like  me! 
It  could  not  now  conceal  its  anxiety  for  Brian  and  Brian's 
kith  and  kin,  if  it  knew  what  Julian  knows. 

I  waited  until  our  last  day  at  Amiens,  and  Father  Beck 
ett,  Brian,  and  Sirius  are  back  from  the  British  front. 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  315 

Perhaps  I  forgot  to  tell  you  that  Sirius  went.  He  wasn't 
on  the  programme,  but  he  knew  somehow  that  his  master 
was  planning  a  separation,  and  refused  to  fall  in  with  the 
scheme.  He  was  discovered  in  the  motor-car  when  it 
was  ready  to  start,  looking  his  best,  his  dear  face  parted 
in  the  middle  with  an  irresistible,  ingratiating  smile. 
When  Brian  tried  to  put  him  out  he  flattened  himself,  and 
clung  like  a  limpet.  By  Father  Beckett's  intercession,  he 
was  eventually  taken,  trusting  to  luck  for  toleration  by  the 
British  Army.  Of  course  he  continued  to  smile  upon  all 
possible  arbiters  of  his  fate;  and  the  drama  of  his  history, 
combined  with  the  pathos  of  his  blind  master  who  fought 
on  these  battlefields  of  Flanders,  which  now  he  cannot  see, 
made  Brian's  Sirius  and  Sirius's  Brian  persona  grata  every 
where. 

"I  should  have  been  nobody  and  nothing  without 
them!"  modestly  insisted  the  millionaire  philanthropist 
for  whom  all  the  privileges  of  the  trip  had  been  granted. 

To  me,  with  the  one  thought,  the  one  word  "Jim — Jim— - 
Jim!"  repeating  in  my  head  it  was  strange,  even  irrelevant 
to  hear  Jim's  unsuspecting  father  and  my  blind  brother 
discoursing  of  their  adventures. 

We  all  assembled  in  Mother  Beckett's  sitting  room  to 
listen  to  the  recital,  she  on  a  sofa,  a  rug  over  her  feet,  and 
on  her  transparent  face  an  utterly  absorbed,  tense  ex 
pression  rather  like  a  French  spaniel  trying  to  learn  an 
English  trick. 

Father  Beckett  appointed  Brian  as  spokesman,  and  then 
in  his  excitement  broke  in  every  instant  with:  "Don't 
forget  this!  Be  sure  to  remember  that!  But  so-and-so 
was  the  best!"  Or  he  jumped  up  from  his  chair  by  the 


316  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

sofa,  and  dropped  his  wife's  hand  to  point  out  something 
on  the  map,  spread  like  a  cloth  over  the  whole  top  of  a 
bridge-table. 

,  It  was  his  finger  that  sketched  for  our  eyes  the  sharp 
triangle  which  the  road-journey  had  formed:  Amiens  to 
Albert :  Albert  to  Peronne :  Peronne  to  Bapaume :  Bapaume 
to  Arras :  Arras  to  Bethune,  and  so  on  to  Ypres :  his 
finger  that  reminded  Brian  of  the  first  forest  on  the  road 
— a  forest  full  of  working  German  prisoners. 

At  Pont-Noyelles,  between  Amiens  and  Albert,  they 
were  met  by  an  officer  who  was  to  be  their  guide  for  that 
part  of  the  British  front  which  they  were  to  visit.  He 
was  sent  from  headquarters,  but  hadn't  been  able  to  afford 
time  for  Amiens.  However,  Pont-Noyelles  was  the  most 
interesting  place  between  there  and  Albert.  A  tremendous 
battle  was  fought  on  that  spot  in  '70,  between  the  French 
under  famous  General  Faidherbe  and  the  Germans  under 
Manteuffel — a  perfect  name  for  a  German  general  of  these 
days,  if  not  of  those!  There  were  two  monuments  to 
commemorate  the  battle — one  high  on  a  hill  above  the 
village;  and  the  officer  guide  (with  the  face  of  a  boy  and 
the  grim  experience  of  an  Old  Contemptible)  was  well  up 
in  their  history.  He  turned  out  to  be  a  friend  of  friends  of 
Brian  and  knew  the  history  of  Sirius  as  well  as  that  of  all 
the  war- was  ted  land.  He  and  Brian,  though  they'd  never 
met,  had  fought  near  each  other  it  seemed,  and  he  could 
describe  for  the  blind  eyes  all  the  changes  that  had  come 
upon  the  Somme  country  since  Brian's  "day."  The 
roads  which  had  been  remade  by  the  British  over  the  shell- 
soarred  and  honeycombed  surface  of  the  land;  the  aero 
dromes;  the  training-camps;  the  tanks;  the  wonderful 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  S17 

new  railways  for  troops  and  ammunition :  the  bands  of 
German  prisoners  docilely  at  work. 

When  the  great  gray  car  stopped,  throbbing,  at  special 
view-points  here  and  there,  it  was  Brian  who  could  listen 
for  a  lark's  message  of  hope  among  the  billowing  downs,  or 
diaw  in  the  tea-rose  scent  of  earth  from  some  brown  field 
tilled  by  a  woman.  It  was  Father  Beckett  who  saw  the 
horrors  of  desolation— desolation  more  hideous  even  than 
on  the  French  front;  because,  since  the  beginning,  here 
had  burned  the  hottest  furnace  of  war:  here  had  fallen  a 
black,  never-ceasing  rain  of  bombardment,  night  and  day, 
day  and  night,  year  after  year. 

It  was  the  cherubic  Old  Contemptible  who  could  tell 
each  detail  of  war-history,  when  the  car  reached  Albert. 
It  was  Brian  who  knew  the  ancient  legend  of  the  place,  and 
the  modern  story  of  the  spy,  which,  together,  double  the 
dramatic  interest  of  the  Bending  Virgin.  In  the  eleventh 
century  a  shepherd  boy  discovered,  in  a  miraculous  way, 
a  statue  of  the  Virgin.  There  was  a  far-off  sound  of  music 
at  night,  when  he  was  out  in  search  of  strayed  sheep,  and 
being  young  he  forgot  his  errand  in  curiosity  to  learn 
whence  came  the  mysterious  chanting,  accompanied  by 
the  silver  notes  of  a  flute.  The  boy  wandered  in  the  direc 
tion  of  the  delicate  sounds,  and  to  his  amazement  found 
all  the  lost  flock  grazing  round  a  statue  which  appeared  to 
have  risen  from  the  earth.  On  that  spot  was  built  the 
basilica  of  Notre-Dame  de  Brebieres,  which  became  a 
place  of  pilgrimage.  The  Virgin  of  the  Shepherds  was 
supposed  to  send  her  blessings  far,  far  over  the  country, 
side,  and  her  gilded  image,  with  the  baby  Christ  in  her 
arms,  was  a  flaming  beacon  at  sunrise  and  sunset.  Thus 


318  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

on  her  high  tower  the  golden  Lady  stood  when  the  war 
began.  Albert  was  pitilessly  bombarded,  and  with  a 
startling  accuracy  which  none  could  understand:  yet  the 
church  itself,  with  its  temptingly  high  tower,  remained 
intact.  Through  October,  1914,  the  shining  figure  blazed 
against  the  sky,  while  houses  fell  in  all  quarters  of  the  town: 
but  on  November  1st,  three  bombs  struck  the  church. 
They  were  the  first  heavy  drops  of  rain  in  a  thunderstorm. 
The  roof  crashed  in:  and  presently  the  pedestal  of  the 
Virgin  received  a  shattering  blow.  This  was  on  the  very 
day  when  Albert  discovered  why  for  so  long  the  church 
had  been  immune.  A  spy  had  been  safely  signalling  from 
the  tower,  telling  German  gunners  how  and  where  to  strike 
with  the  most  damage  to  the  town.  When  all  the  fac 
tories  which  gave  wealth  to  Albert,  and  the  best  houses, 
had  been  methodically  destroyed,  the  spy  silently  stole 
away:  and  the  Virgin  of  the  Shepherds  then  bent  over, 
face  down,  to  search  for  this  black  sheep  of  the  fold.  Ever 
since  she  with  the  sacred  Child  in  her  arms  has  hung  thus 
suspended  in  pity  and  blessing  over  mountainous  piles  of 
wreckage  which  once  composed  the  market-place.  She 
will  not  crash  to  earth,  Albert  believes,  till  the  war  is  over. 
But  so  loved  is  she  in  her  posture  of  protection  that  the 
citizens  propose  to  keep  her  in  it  for  ever  to  commemorate 
the  war-history  of  Albert,  when  Albert  is  rebuilt  for  future 
generations. 

From  there  the  gray  car  ran  on  almost  due  east  to 
Peronne,  out  of  the  country  of  Surrey-like,  Chiltern-like 
downs,  into  a  strange  marshy  waste,  where  the  river 
Somme  expands  into  vast  meres,  swarming  with  many 
fish.  It  looked,  Father  Beckett  said,  "Like  a  bit  of 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  319 

the" world  when  God  had  just  begun  to  create  life  out  of 
chaos." 

Poor  Peronne!  In  its  glorious  days  of  feudal  youth  its 
fortress-castle  was  invincible.  The  walls  were  so  thick 
that  in  days  before  gunpowder  no  assaults  could  hope  to 
break  through  them.  Down  in  its  underground  depths 
was  a  dungeon,  where  trapped  enemy  princes  lay  rotting 
and  starving  through  weary  years,  never  released  save  by 
death,  unless  tortured  into  signing  shameful  treaties. 
The  very  sound  of  the  name,  "Peronne,"  is  an  echo  of 
history,  as  Brian  says.  Hardly  a  year-date  in  the  Middle 
Ages  could  be  pricked  by  a  pin  without  touching  some 
sensational  event  going  on  at  that  time  at  Peronne. 
I  remember  this  from  my  schooldays;  and  more  clearly  still 
from  "Quentin  Durward,"  which  I  have  promised  to 
read  aloud  to  Mother  Beckett.  I  remember  the  Scottish 
monks  who  were  established  at  Peronne  in  the  reign  of 
Clovis.  I  remember  how  Charles  the  Bold  of  Burgundy 
(who  died  outside  Nancy's  gates)  imprisoned  wicked 
Louis  XI  in  a  strong  tower  of  the  chateau,  one  of  the  four 
towers  with  conical  roofs,  like  extinguishers  of  giant 
candles  and  kingly  reputations!  I  remember  best  of  all 
the  heroine  of  Peronne,  Catherine  de  Poix,  "la  belle 
Peronnaise,"  who  broke  with  her  own  hand  the  standard 
of  Charles's  royal  flag,  in  the  siege  of  1536,  threw  the  bearer 
into  the  fosse,  and  saved  the  city. 

When  Wellington  took  the  fortress  in  1814,  he  did  not 
desecrate  or  despoil  the  place:  it  was  left  for  the  Ger 
mans  to  do  that,  just  a  century  later  in  the  progress  of 
civilization !  My  blood  grew  hot  as  I  heard  from  our  two 
men  the  story  of  what  the  new  Vandals  had  done.  Just 


320  EVERYMAN'S  LANTD 

for  a  moment  I  almost  forgot  the  secret  burning  in  my 
heart.  The  proud  pile  of  historic  stone  brought  to  earth 
at  last,  like  a  soldier-king,  felled  by  an  axe  in  his  old  age : 
the  statue  of  Catherine  thrown  from  its  pedestal,  and  re 
placed  in  mockery  by  a  foolish  manikin — this  as  a  mean 
revenge  for  what  she  did  to  the  standard-bearer,  most  of 
Charles's  men  in  the  siege  being  Germans,  under  Henry  of 
Nassau. 

*  "Toil jours  Francs-P&onnais 
Auront  bon  jour, 
Toujours  et  en  tout  temps 
Francs-Pe*ronnais  auront  bon  temps," 

the  girls  used  to  sing'in  old  days  as  they  wove  the  wonderful 
linens  and  tissues  of  Peronne,  or  embroidered  banners  of 
gorgeous  colours  to  commemorate  the  saving  of  the  Picard 
city  by  Catherine:  as  Brian  repeated  to  Father  Beckett 
wandering  through  the  ruins  redeemed  last  spring  for 
France  by  the  British.  And  though  Brian's  eyes  could  not 
see  the  rubbish-heap  where  once  had  soared  the  citadel  he 
saw  through  the  mystic  veil  of  his  blindness  many  things 
which  others  did  not  see. 

It  seems  that  above  these  marshy  flats  of  the  Somme, 
where  the  river  has  wandered  away  from  the  hills  and  dis 
guised  itself  in  shining  lakes,  gauzy  mists  always  hover. 
Brian  had  seen  them  with  bodily  eyes,  while  he  was  a 
soldier.  Now,  with  the  eyes  of  his  spirit  he  saw  them 
again,  gleaming  with  the  delicate,  indescribable  colours 
which  only  blind  eyes  can  call  up  to  lighten  darkness.  He 
saw  the  fleecy  clouds  streaming  over  Peronne  like  a 
vast,  transparent  ghost-banner.  He  saw  on  then*  filmy 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  321 

folds,  as  if  traced  in  blue  and  gold  and  royal  purple,  the 
ever  famous  scene  on  the  walls  when  Catherine  and  her 
following  beat  back  Nassau's  men  from  the  one  breach 
where  they  might  have  captured  the  town.  And  this 
mystic  banner  of  the  spirit  Germans  can  never  capture 
or  desecrate.  It  will  wave  over  Peronne — what  was 
Pe'ronne,  and  what  wih1  again  be  Peronne — while  the  world 
goes  on  making  history  for  free  men. 

After  Peronne,  Bapaume:  the  battered  corpse  of 
Bapaume,  murdered  in  flame  that  reddened  all  the  skies  of 
Picardy  before  the  British  came  to  chase  the  Germans  out ! 

In  old  times,  when  a  place  was  destroyed  the  saying  was, 
"Not  one  stone  is  left  upon  another."  But  in  this  war, 
destruction  means  an  avalanche  of  stones  upon  each  other. 
Bapaume  as  Father  Beckett  saw  it,  is  a  Herculaneum 
unexcavated.  Beneath  lie  buried  countless  precious 
things,  and  still  more  precious  memories;  the  feudal 
grandeur  of  the  old  chateau  where  Philippe-Auguste 
married  proud  Isabelle  de  Hainaut,  with  splendid  cere 
mony  as  long  ago  as  1180:  the  broken  glory  of  ancient 
ramparts,  where  modern  lovers  walked  till  the  bugles  of 
August  2,  1914,  parted  them  for  ever;  the  arcaded 
Town  Hall,  old  as  the  domination  of  the  Spaniards  in 
Picardy;  the  sixteenth-century  church  of  St.  Nicolas  with 
its  quaint  Byzantine  Virgin  of  miracles:  the  statue  of 
Faidherbe  who  beat  back  the  German  wave  from  Bapaume 
in  1871:  ah1,  all  burned  and  battered,  and  mingled  in 
extricably  with  debris  of  pitiful  little  homes,  nobles' 
houses,  rich  shops  and  tiny  boutiques,  so  that,  when 
Bapaume  rises  from  the  dead,  she  will  rise  as  one — even 
as  France  has  risen. 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

Of  the  halting  places  on  this  pilgrimage  along  the  British 
front,  I  should  best  have  liked  to  be  with  Brian  and 
Father  Beckett  at  Arras.  Brian  and  I  were  there  together 
you  know,  Padre,  on  that  happy-go-lucky  tramping  tour  of 
ours — not  long  before  I  met  Jim.  We  both  loved  Arras, 
Brian  and  I,  and  spent  a  week  there  in  the  most  f ascinating 
of  ancient  hotels.  It  had  been  a  palace;  and  I  had  a  huge 
room,  big  enough  for  the  bedchamber  of  a  princess  (prin 
cesses  should  always  have  bedchambers,  never  mere  bed 
rooms  !)  with  long  windows  draped  like  the  walls  and  stiff 
old  furniture,  in  yellow  satin.  I  was  frightened  when  an 
aged  servant  with  the  air  of  a  pontiff  ushered  me  in; 
for  Brian  and  I  were  travelling  "on  the  cheap."  But 
Arras,  though  delicious  in  its  quaint  charm,  never  attrac 
ted  hordes  of  ordinary  tourists.  Consequently  one  could 
have  yellow  satin  hangings  without  being  beggared. 

Oh,  how  happy  we  were  in  that  hotel,  and  in  the  adorable 
old  town!  While  Brian  painted  in  the  Grande  Place  and 
the  Petite  Place,  and  sketched  the  Abbey  of  St.Waast  (who 
brought  Christianity  to  that  part  of  the  world)  I  wandered 
alone.  I  used  to  stand  every  evening  till  my  neck  ached, 
staring  up  at  the  beautiful  belfry,  to  watch  the  swallows 
chase  each  other  back  and  forth  among  the  bells,  whose 
peal  was  music  of  fairyland.  And  I  never  tired  of  wander 
ing  through  the  arcades  under  the  tall  old  Flemish  houses 
with  their  overhanging  upper  storeys,  or  peeping  into  the 
arcades'  cool  shadows,  from  the  middle  of  the  sunlit 
squares. 

There  were  some  delightful  shops  in  those  arcades,  where 
they  sold  antique  Flemish  furniture,  queer  old  pictures 
showing  Arras  in  her  proud,  treaty-making  days  (you  know 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  323 

what  a  great  place  she  was  for  treaty-making!)  and  lovely 
faded  tapestries  said  to  be  "genuinely'*  of  the  time  when 
no  one  mentioned  a  piece  of  tapestry  save  as  an  "arras." 
But  the  shop  I  haunted  was  a  cake-shop.  It  was  called 
"Au  Coeur  (T  Arras"  because  the  famous  speciality  of  Arras 
was  a  heart-shaped  cake;  but  I  wasn't  lured  there  so  much 
by  the  charm  of  les  cceurs  as  by  that  of  the  person  who 
sold  them. 

I  dare  say  I  described  her  to  you  in  letters,  or  when  I  got 
back  to  England  after  that  trip.  The  most  wonderful  old 
lady  who  ever  lived!  She  didn't  welcome  her  customers 
at  all.  She  just  sat  and  knitted.  She  had  an  architectural 
sort  of  face,  framed  with  a  crust  of  snow — I  mean,  a 
frilled  cap!  And  if  one  furtively  stared,  she  looked  at 
one  down  her  nose,  and  made  one  feel  cheap  and  small 
as  if  one  had  snored,  or  hiccupped  out  aloud  in  a  cathedral! 
But  it  seems  I  won  her  esteem  by  enquiring  if  "ks  cceurs 
d*  Arras"  had  a  history.  Nobody  else  had  ever  shown 
enough  intelligence  to  care!  So  she  gave  me  the  history 
of  the  cakes,  and  of  everything  else  in  Arras;  also,  before 
we  went  away,  she  escorted  Brian  and  me  into  a  marvellous 
cellar  beneath  her  shop.  It  went  down  three  storeys  and 
had  fireplaces  and  a  well!  The  earth  under  La  Grande 
Place  was  honeycombed  with  such  souterrains,  she  said. 
They'd  once  been  quarries,  in  days  so  old  as  to  be  for 
gotten — quarries  of  "tender  stone"  (what  a  nice  ex 
pression!),  and  the  people  of  Arras  had  cemented  and 
made  them  habitable  in  case  of  bombardment.  They 
must  have  been  useful  in  1914 ! 

As  for  the  cakes,  they  were  invented  by  an  abbess  who 
was  sent  to  Spain.  Before  reluctantly  departing,  she 


324  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

gave  the  recipe  to  her  successor,  saying  she  "left  her  heart 
in  Arras/*  According  to  the  legend  (the  old  shop-lady 
assured  me)  a  girl  who  had  never  loved  was  certain  to  fall 
in  love  within  a  month  after  first  eating  a  Heart  of  Arras. 
Well,  Padre,  I  ate  almost  a  hundred  hearts,  and  less  than 
a  month  after  I  met  Jim ! 

You  may  believe  that  I  asked  Brian  and  Father  Beckett 
a  dozen  questions  at  once  about  dear  Arras.  But  alac, 
alas!  all  the  answers  were  sad. 

The  beautiful  belfry?  Only  a  phantom  remaining. 
The  Hotel  de  Ville?  Smashed.  La  Grande  Place- 
La  Petite  Place?  Stone  quarries  above  ground  as  well 
as  below,  the  old  Flemish  fagades  crumbled  like  sheets  of 
barley  sugar.  The  arcades?  Ruined.  The  charming 
old  shops?  Vanished.  The  seller  of  Hearts?  Dead. 
But  the  Hearts — they  still  existed !  The  children  of  Arras 
who  have  come  back  "since  the  worst  was  over"  (that 
is  their  way  of  putting  it!)  would  not  feel  that  life  was 
life  without  the  Arras  Hearts.  Besides,  Arras  without  the 
Hearts  would  be  like  the  Altar  of  the  Vestal  Virgins  with 
out  the  ever-burning  lamp.  So  they  are  still  baked,  and 
still  eaten,  those  brave  little  Hearts  of  Arras — and  Brian 
.asked  Father  Beckett  to  bring  me  a  box. 
f'  They  bought  it  of  a  cousin  of  my  old  woman,  an  ancient 
man  who  had  lurked  in  a  cellar  during  the  whole  of  the 
bombardment.  He  said  that  all  Arras  knew,  in  Septem 
ber,  1914,  how  the  Kaiser  had  vowed  to  march  into  the 
town  in  triumph,  and  how,  when  he  found  the  place  as  hard 
to  take  "as  quicksilver  is  to  grasp,'*  he  revenged  himself 
by  destroying  its  best-beloved  treasures.  He  must  have 
rejoiced  that  July  day  of  1915,  when  Wolff's  Agency  was 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  325 

able  to  announce  at  last,  that  the  Abbey  of  St.  Waast 
and  its  museum  were  in  flames ! 

As  the  gray  car  bumped  on  to  Bethune,  Vimy  Ridge 
floated  blue  in  the  far  distance,  to  the  right  of  the  road, 
and  Father  Beckett  and  Brian  took  off  their  hats  to  it. 
Still  farther  away,  and  out  of  sight  lay  Lens,  in  German 
possession,  but  practically  encircled  by  the  British.  The 
Old  Contemptible  had  been  there,  and  described  the 
town  as  having  scarcely  a  roof  left,  but  being  an  "ant 
heap"  of  Boches,  who  swarm  in  underground  shelters 
bristling  with  machine  guns.  Between  Lens  and  the  road 
stood  the  celebrated  Colonne  de  Conde,  showing  where  the 
prince  won  his  great  victory  over  Spam;  and  farther  on, 
within  gun-sound  distance  though  out  of  sight,  lay  Loos, 
on  the  Canal  de  PHaute  Deule.  Who  thinks  nowadays 
of  its  powerful  Cistercian  Abbey,  that  dominated  the 
country  round?  Who  thinks  twice,  when  travelling  this 
Appian  Way  which  Germany  has  given  France,  of  any 
history  which  began  or  ended  before  the  year  1914? 

Bethune  they  found  still  existing  as  a  town.  It  hag 
been  bombarded  often  but  not  utterly  destroyed,  and  from 
there  they  ran  out  four  miles  to  Festubert,  because  the 
little  that  the  Germans  have  left  of  the  thirteenth-century 
church  and  village,  burns  with  an  eternal  flame  of  interest. 

Bethune  itself  was  a  famous  fortress  once,  full  of  history 
and  legend:  but  isn't  the  whole  country  in  its  waste  and 
ruin,  like  a  torn  historic  banner,  crusted  with  jewels — 
magic  jewels,  which  cannot  be  stolen  by  enemy  hands? 

On  the  way  to  Ypres — crown  and  climax  of  the  tour — the 
car  passed  Lillers  and  Hazebrouck,  places  never  to  be 
forgotten  by  hearts  that  beat  in  the  battles  of  Flanders. 


326  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

Then  came  the  frontier  at  Steenwoorde;  and  they  were 
actually  in  Belgium,  passing  Poperinghe  to  Ypres,  the 
most  famous  British  battleground  of  the  war. 

When  Brian  was  fighting,  and  when  you  were  on  earth, 
Padre,  everyone  talked  about  the  "Ypres  Salient."  Now, 
though  for  soldiers  Ypres  will  always  be  the  "salient" 
since  the  battle  of  Wytschaete  Ridge,  the  material  salient 
has  vanished.  Yet  the  same  trenches  exist,  in  the  same 
gray  waste  which  Brian  used  to  paint  in  those  haunting, 
impressionist  war  sketches  of  his  that  all  London  talked 
about,  after  the  Regent  Street  exhibition  that  he  didn't 
even  try  for  leave  to  see!  The  critics  spoke  of  the  mys 
terious,  spiritual  quality  of  his  work,  which  gave  "without 
sentimentality"  picturesqueness  to  the  shell-holes  and 
mud,  the  shattered  trees  and  wooden  crosses,  under  eter 
nally  dreaming  skies. 

Well,  Brian  tells  me  that  going  back  as  a  blind  man  to 
the  old  scenes,  he  had  a  strange,  thrilling  sense  of  seeing 
them — seeing  more  clearly  than  before  those  effects  of 
mysterious  beauty,  hovering  with  prophecy  above  the 
squalor  of  mud  and  blood,  hovering  and  mingling  as  the 
faint  light  of  dawn  mingles,  at  a  certain  hour,  with  the 
shadows  of  night.  People  used  to  call  his  talent  a  "blend 
of  vision  with  reality."  Now,  all  that  is  left  him  is 
"vision" — vision  of  the  spirit.  But  with  help — I  used  to 
think  it  would  be  my  help :  now  I  realize  it  will  be  Dierdre's 
— who  knows  what  extraordinary  things  my  blind  Brian 
may  accomplish?  His  hope  is  so  beautiful,  and  so  strong, 
that  it  has  lit  an  answering  flame  of  hope  in  me. 

He  and  I  were  in  Ypres  for  a  few  days,  just  about  the 
time  I  was  wondering  why  "Jim  Wyndham"  didn't  keep 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  327 

his  promise  to  find  me  again.  It  was  in  Ypres,  I  remem 
ber,  that  I  came  across  the  box  of  "Cceurs  d' Arras"  I'd 
brought  with  me.  Opening  it,  I  recalled  the  legend  about 
a  girl  who  has  never  loved,  falling  in  love  within  a  month 
after  first  eating  an  Arras  Heart.  It  was  then  I  said  to 
myself,  "Why,  it  has  come  true  I  I  have  fallen  in  love  with 
Jim  Wyndham — and  he  has  forgotten  me  /" 

Oh,  Padre,  how  that  pain  comes  back  to  me  now,  in  the 
midst  of  the  new  pain,  like  the  "core  of  the  brilliance 
within  the  brilliance!"  Which  hurt  is  worse,  to  love  a 
man,  and  believe  oneself  forgotten,  or  to  love  and  know 
one  has  been  loved,  and  then  become  unworthy?  I  can't 
be  sure.  I  can't  even  be  sure  that,  if  I  could,  I  would  go 
back  to  being  the  old  self  before  I  committed  the  one  big 
sin  of  my  life,  which  gave  me  Jim's  father  and  mother,  and 
the  assurance  that  he  had  cared.  For  a  while,  after  Mother 
Beckett  told  me  about  Jim's  love  for  "The  Girl,"  in  spite 
of  my  wickedness  I  glowed  with  a  kind  of  happiness.  I 
felt  that,  through  all  the  years  of  my  life — even  when  I 
grew  old — Jim  would  be  mine,  young,  handsome,  gay, 
just  as  I  had  seen  him  on  the  Wonderful  Day:  that 
I  could  always  run  away  from  outside  things  and  shut 
the  gate  of  the  garden  on  myself  and  Jim — that  rose- 
garden  on  the  border  of  Belgium.  Now,  when  I  know — • 
or  almost  know — that  he  will  come  back  in  the  flesh 
to  despise  me,  and  that  the  gate  of  the  garden  will  be 
forever  shut — why,  I  shall  be  punished  as  perhaps  no 
woman  has  ever  been  punished  before.  Still — still  I 
can' t  be  sure  that  I  would  escape,  if  I  could,  by  going 
back  to  my  old  self! 

It  is  writing  of  Belgium,  and  my  days  there  with  Brian 


328  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

while  I  still  hoped  to  see  Jim,  that  brings  all  these  thoughts 
crowding  so  thickly  to  my  mind,  they  seem  to  drip  off  my 
pen! 

But  what  a  different  Ypres  Father  Beckett  has  now 
seen,  and  Brian  felt,  from  that  dear,  pleasant  Ypres  into 
which  we  two  drove  in  a  cart,  along  a  cobbled  causeway  as 
straight  as  a  tight-drawn  string!  Tourists  who  loved  the 
blue,  and  yellow,  and  red  bath-houses  on  the  golden  beach 
of  Ostend,  didn't  worry  to  motor  over  the  bumpy  road, 
through  the  Flemish  plain  to  Ypres.  The  war  was  needed 
to  bring  its  sad  fame  to  "Wipers!"  But  Brian  and  I  in 
terrupted  our  walking  tour  with  that  cart,  because  we 
knew  that  the  interminable  causeway  would  take  us  deep 
into  the  inner  quaintness  of  Flanders.  We  adored  it  all: 
and  at  every  stopping-place  on  the  twenty-mile  road,  I 
had  the  secret  joy  of  whispering;  "Perhaps  it  is  here  that 
He  will  suddenly  appear,  and  meet  us ! " 

There  was  one  farmhouse  on  the  way,  where  I  longed  to 
have  him  come.  I  wanted  him  so  much  that  I  almost 
created  him!  I  was  listening  every  moment,  and  through 
every  sound,  for  his  car.  It  never  came.  But  because  I 
so  wished  the  place  to  be  a  background  for  our  meeting  I 
can  see  the  two  large  living-rooms  of  the  old  house,  with 
the  black-beamed  ceilings,  the  Flemish  stoves,  the  tall, 
carved  sideboards  and  chests  with  armorial  bearings,  the 
deep  window-seats  that  were  flower-stands  and  work- 
tables  combined,  and  the  shelves  of  ancient  pottery  and 
gleaming,  antique  brass.  There  was  a  comfortable  frag 
rance  of  new-baked  bread,  mingling  with  the  spicy  scent 
of  grass-pinks,  in  that  house:  and  the  hostess  who 
gave  us  luncheon — a  young  married  woman — had  a  mild, 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  329 

sweet  face,  strongly  resembling  that  of  St.  Gene  vie  ve 
of  Brabant,  as  pictured  in  a  coloured  lithograph  on  the 
wall. 

St.  Gene  vie  ve's  story  is  surely  the  most  romantic,  the 
most  pathetic  of  any  saint  who  ever  deigned  to  tread  on 
earth ! — and  her  life  and  death  might  serve  as  an  allegory 
of  Belgium's  martyrdom,  poor  Belgium,  the  little  country 
whose  patron  she  is.  Since  that  day  at  the  farmhouse  on 
the  road  to  Ypres,  I've  thought  often  of  the  gentle  face 
with  its  forget-me-not  eyes  and  golden  hair;  and  of  Golo 
the  dark  persecutor  who — they  say  now — was  a  real  person 
and  an  ancestor  of  the  Hohenzollerns  through  the  first 
Due  de  Baviere. 

At  Ypres,  Brian  painted  for  me  a  funny  "imagination 
picture"  Imitating  earliest  Flemish  work.  It  showed 
Ypres  when  there  was  no  town  save  a  few  tiny  houses  and 
a  triangular  stronghold,  with  a  turret  at  each  corner,  built 
on  a  little  island  in  the  river  Yperlee.  He  named  the 
picture  "The  Castle  of  the  Three  Strong  Towers,"  and 
dated  it  in  the  year  900.  A  thousand  years  have  passed  since 
then.  Slowly,  after  much  fighting  (the  British  fought 
as  hard  to  take  Ypres  once,  as  they  fight  to  save  it  now), 
the  town  grew  great  and  powerful,  and  became  the  capital 
of  Flanders.  The  days  of  the  rough  earthen  stockades  and 
sharp  thorn-bush  defences  of  "Our  Lady  of  the  En 
closures"  passed  on  to  the  days  of  casemates  and  moats; 
and  still  on,  to  the  days  when  the  old  fortifications  could  be 
turned  into  ornamental  walks — days  of  quaintly  beauti 
ful  architecture,  such  as  Brian  and  I  saw  before  the  war, 
when  we  spent  hours  in  the  Grand'  Place,  admiring  the 
wonderful  Cloth  Hall  and  the  Spanish-looking  Nieuwerck. 


330  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

The  people  of  Ypres  told  us  proudly  that  nothing  in  Bruges 
itself,  or  anywhere  in  Flanders,  could  compare  with  those 
noble  buildings  massed  together  at  the  west  end  of  the 
Grand'  Place,  each  stone  of  which  represented  so  much 
wealth  of  the  richest  merchant  kings  of  Europe. 

And  now,  the  work  of  those  thousand  busy  years  has 
crumbled  in  a  few  monstrous  months,  like  the  sand-houses 
of  children  when  the  tide  comes  in!  What  Father  Beckett 
saw  of  Ypres  after  three  years'  bombardment,  was  not 
much  more  than  that  shown  in  Brian's  picture,  dated  900! 
A  blackened  wall  or  two  and  a  heap  of  rubble  where  stood 
the  Halle  des  Drapiers — pride  of  Ypres  since  the  thirteenth 
century — its  belfry,  its  statues,  its  carvings,  its  paintings, 
all  vanished  like  the  contours  and  colours  of  a  sunset  cloud. 
The  cathedral  is  a  skeleton.  Hardly  a  pointed  gable  is 
left  to  tell  where  the  quaint  and  prosperous  houses  once 
grouped  cosily  together.  Ypres  the  town  is  a  mourner 
draped  in  black  with  the  stains  of  fire  which  killed  its 
beauty  and  joy.  But  there  is  a  glory  that  can  never  be 
killed,  a  glory  above  mere  beauty,  as  a  living  soul  is 
above  the  dead  body  whence  it  has  risen.  That  glory  is 
Ypres.  She  is  a  ghost,  but  she  is  an  inspiration,  a  name 
of  names,  a  jewel  worth  dying  for — "worth  giving  a  man's 
eyes  for,"  Brian  says ! 

"Has  your  brother  told  you  about  the  man  we  met  at 
the  Visitors'  Chateau?"  asked  Father  Beckett,  when 
between  the  two  men — and  my  reminiscences — the 
story  of  the  tour  was  finished  with  those  last  words  of 
Brian's. 

"No,  I  haven't  told  her  yet,"  Brian  answered  for  me. 

My  nerves  jumped.     I  scarcely  knew  what  I  expected  to 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  331 

hear.  "Not  Doctor  Paul  Herter?"  I  exclaimed — and 
was  surprised  to  hear  on  my  own  lips  the  name  so  con 
stantly  in  my  mind. 

"Well,  that's  queer  she  should  speak  of  him,  isn't  it, 
Brian?  How  did  you  come  to  think  of  Herter?"  Father 
Beckett  wanted  to  know. 

"  Was  it  he?  "  I  insisted. 

"No.  But— you'd  better  tell  her,  Brian.  I  guess  you'll 
have  to." 

"  There  isn't  much  to  tell,  really,"  Brian  said.  " It  was 
only  that  oculist  chap  Herter  told  you  about — Dr.  Henri 
Chrevreuil.  He's  been  working  at  the  front,  as  you  know : 
lately  it's  been  the  British  front;  and  they'd  taken  him  in 
at  the  chateau  for  a  few  days'  rest.  We  met  him  there 
and  talked  of  his  friend — your  friend,  Molly — Doctor 
Paul.'" 

"What  did  he  say  about  your  eyes?"  Dierdre  almost 
gasped.  (I  should  not  have  ventured  to  put  the  ques 
tion  suddenly,  and  before  people.  I  should  have  been  too 
afraid  of  the  answer.  But  her  nickname  is  "Dare/") 
"He  must  have  said  something,  or  Mr.  Beckett  wouldn't 
have  spoken  so.  He  did  look  at  your  eyes — didn't  he? 
He  would,  for  Herter's  sake." 

"Yes,  he  did  look  at  them,"  Brian  admitted.  "He 
didn't  say  much." 

"  But  what— what?" 

"He  said: '  Wait,  and— see." 

"  And  see  I "     Dierdre  echoed. 

The  same  thought  was  in  all  our  minds.  As  I  gazed 
mutely  at  Brian,  he  gave  me  the  most  beautiful  smile  of  his 
life.  He  must  have  felt  that  I  was  looking  at  him,  or  he 


332  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

would  not  so  have  smiled.  Let  Jim  hate  and — punish  me 
when  he  comes  back,  and  drive  me  out  of  Paradise !  Wher 
ever  I  may  go,  there  will  be  the  reflection  of  that  smile  and 
the  thought  behind  it.  How  can  I  be  unhappy,  if  Brian 
need  only  wait,  to  see? 


CHAPTER  XXX 

PADRE,  my  mind  is  like  a  thermometer  exposed 
every  minute  to  a  different  temperature,  but  al 
ways  high  or  low — never  normal. 

To  tell,  or  not  to  tell,  Father  Beckett  what  the  man  I 
didn't  see  said  about  Jim — or  rather,  what  Julian  O'Far- 
rell  said  that  he  said!  This  has  been  the  constant  ques 
tion;  but  the  thermometer  invariably  flies  up  or  down, 
far  from  the  answer-point. 

When  our  men  came  back  to  Amiens,  I  almost  hoped 
that  Puck  would  do  his  worst — carry  out  his  threat  and 
"give  me  away5'  to  Father  Beckett.  In  that  case  I  should 
at  least  have  been  relieved  from  responsibility.  But 
Puck  didn't.  In  my  heart  I  had  known  all  along  that  he 
would  not. 

If  I  could  have  felt  for  a  whole  minute  at  a  time  that  it 
would  be  fair  to  wake  hopes  which  mightn't  be  fulfilled, 
out  would  have  burst  the  secret.  But  whenever  I'd 
screwed  up  my  courage  to  speak,  Something  would  re 
mind  me:  "Herter  sent  word  that  there  might  be  a  mes 
sage  from  Switzerland.  Better  wait  till  it  comes,  for  he 
wasn't  sure  of  his  facts.  He  may  have  been  misled." 
Or,  when  I'd  decided  not  to  speak,  another  Something 
would  say:  "Jim  is  alive.  You  know  he  is  alive!  Her 
ter  is  helping  him  to  escape.  Don't  let  these  dear  old 
people  suffer  a  minute  longer  than  they  need." 

333 


334  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

But — well — so  far  I  have  waited.  A  week  has  passed 
since  I  wrote  at  Amiens.  We  have  arrived  at  Jim's 
chateau — the  little,  quaint,  old  Chateau  d'Andelle,  with 
thick  stone  walls,  black-beamed  ceilings,  and  amusing 
towers,  set  in  the  midst  of  an  enchanted  forest  of  Nor 
mandy.  No  wonder  he  fell  in  love  with  the  place  before 
the  war,  and  wanted  to  live  there!  It  must  have  seemed 
an  impossible  dream  at  the  time,  for  the  owners  (the 
chateau  has  been  in  the  same  family  for  generations)  had 
money  in  those  days,  and  wouldn't  have  let  their  home  to 
strangers.  The  war  has  made  all  the  difference.  They 
couldn't  afford  to  keep  up  the  place,  and  were  eager  to  let. 
Beckett  money  is  a  boon  to  them,  so  everyone  is  satisfied. 
The  agents  in  Paris  secured  two  or  three  extra  servants 
to  help  the  old  pair  left  in  the  house  as  caretakers;  and 
there  is  a  jewel  of  a  maid  for  Mother  Beckett — a  Belgian 
refugette.  I  shall  give  her  some  training  as  a  nurse,  and 
by  and  by  I  shall  be  able  to  fade  away  in  peace.  Already 
I'm  beginning  to  prepare  my  dear  lady's  mind  for  a  part 
ing.  I  talk  of  my  hospital  work,  and  drop  hints  that 
I'm  only  on  leave — that  Brian's  hopes  and  Father  Beck 
ett's  splendid  new-born  plan  for  him,  will  permit  me  to 
take  up  duty  again  soon. 

The  plan  developed  on  the  trip:  but  I'm  sure  the  first 
inspiration  came  from  Mother  Beckett.  While  she  was 
ill,  she  did  nothing  but  lie  and  think  of  things  to  do  for 
other  people.  And  she  was  determined  to  make  it  possible 
for  Brian  to  have  a  love  story  of  his  own,  provided  he 
wanted  one.  It  only  needed  Father  Beckett's  practical 
brain  and  unlimited  purse  to  turn  her  vague  suggestion 
into  a  full-grown  plan.  A  whole  block  of  buildings  on 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  335 

the  outskirts  of  Paris,  let  as  apartment  houses,  is  to  be 
bought  by  Mr.  Beckett,  for  the  use  of  blinded  soldiers. 
Already  his  agents  have  got  the  refusal  of  the  property 
for  him;  and  with  a  few  changes  such  as  knocking  down 
inner  walls  and  putting  in  doors  where  doors  don't  exist, 
the  houses  will  become  one  big  mansion,  to  accommodate 
five  or  six  hundred  men.  Each  will  have  his  own  bedroom 
or  cubicle.  There'll  be  a  gymnasium,  with  a  Swedish  in 
structor,  and  every  trade  or  profession  in  which  a  blind 
man  could  possibly  engage  will  be  taught  by  experts. 
There  will  be  a  big  dining  hall  with  a  musicians'  gallery, 
and  a  theatre.  The  library  will  be  supplied  with  quanti 
ties  of  books  for  the  blind.  There'll  be  a  garden  where  the 
men  will  be  taught  to  grow  flowers  and  vegetables.  They 
will  have  a  resident  doctor,  and  two  superintendents.  One 
of  these  two  will  himself  be  a  blind  man  taught  by  his 
Dwn  experience  how  to  teach  others.  Of  course,  Padre, 
yrou  know  that  this  blind  teacher  is  already  chosen,  and 
that  the  whole  scheme  centres  round  him ! 

In  a  way  Brian  realizes  that,  if  it  were  not  for  him,  it 
would  never  have  been  thought  of.  In  a  way.  But — • 
it  is  his  way.  He  doesn't  torture  himself,  as  I  probably 
should  in  his  place,  by  thinking:  "All  these  immense  sums 
of  money  being  spent  as  an  excuse  to  provide  for  me  in 
life !  Ought  I  to  let  it  be  done?  Ought  I  to  accept?  " 

Brian's  way  is  not  that.  He  says:  "Now  I  understand 
why  I  lost  my  eyesight,  and  it's  worth  it  a  thousand  times. 
This  wonderful  chance  is  to  be  given  me  to  help  others,  as 
I  never  could  have  helped  if  I  hadn't  been  blind.  If  sight 
comes  back,  I  shall  know  what  it  is  to  be  blind,  and  I  can 
give  counsel  and  courage  to  others.  I  am  glad,  glad  to 


336  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

be  blind.  It's  a  privilege  and  a  mission.  Even  if  I  never 
see  again,  except  with  my  spirit's  eyes,  I  shall  still  be  glad!" 

He  doesn't  worry  at  all  because  carrying  out  the  plan 
will  cost  Father  Beckett  one  or  more  of  his  millions.  What 
is  money  for,  except  to  be  spent?  What  pleasure  is  like 
spending  to  do  good?  He  finds  it  quite  natural  that 
Father  Beckett  wants  to  do  this  thing;  and  though  he's 
immensely  grateful,  he  takes  it  blithely  for  granted  that 
the  benefactor  should  be  happy  and  proud. 

Travelling  back  from  Ypres  to  Amiens  they  seem  to 
have  settled  all  the  details  between  them,  though  they 
told  us  their  adventures  before  even  mentioning  the  Plan. 
Brian  is  to  be  guide,  philosopher,  and  friend  to  the 
inmates  and  students  of  the  James  Wyndham  Beckett 
College  for  the  Blind.  Also  he  is  to  give  lectures  on 
art  and  various  other  subjects.  If  he  can  learn  to 
paint  his  blind  impressions  (as  he  believes  he  can,  with 
Dierdre's  promised  help)  he  will  be  able  to  teach 
other  blind  artists  to  follow  his  example.  And  he 
is  to  have  a  salary  for  his  services — not  the  big  one  Father 
Beckett  wished:  Brian  wouldn't  hear  of  that — but  enough 
to  live  on.  And  Dierdre  and  Julian  are  offered  official 
positions  and  salaries  too.  It's  suggested  that  they 
should  take  a  flat  near  by  the  College,  within  easy  walk 
ing  distance.  Dierdre  is  to  entertain  the  blind  men  with 
recitations,  and  teach  the  art  of  reciting  to  those  who  wish 
to  learn.  Julian  is  to  sing  and  play  for  the  men  in  the 
house-theatre,  once  or  twice  a  week,  as  he  can  spare  time 
from  his  work  with  De  Letzski.  Also  he  will  give  one 
lesson  a  week  in  singing  and  voice  production. 

Both  the  O'Farrells  are  to  be  well  paid  (no  trouble  in 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  337 

persuading  Julian  to  accept  generous  proposals  for  him 
self  and  his  sister;  for  him  the  labourer  is  indeed 
worthy  of  his  hire) :  and  with  American  dash  and  money  the 
scheme  is  expected  to  be  in  working  order  by  next  June. 
It's  now  well  into  November.  But  after  seeing  how  other 
schemes  have  worked,  and  how  this  Chateau  d'Andelle 
business  has  been  rushed  through,  I  have  the  most  sub 
lime  faith  in  Beckett  miracles. 

They  are  astonishing,  these  Becketts !  Father,  the  sim 
plest,  kindest  man,  with  the  air  of  liking  his  fireside 
better  than  any  adventure :  Mother,  a  slip  of  a  creature — 
"a  flower  in  a  vase  to  be  kept  by  her  menfolk  on  a  high 
shelf,"  as  I  told  myself  when  I  first  saw  her.  Yet  what 
adventures  they  have  had,  and  what  they  have  accom 
plished  since  the  day  Brian  proposed  this  pilgrimage,  two 
months  ago !  Not  a  town  on  our  route  that,  after  the  war 
won't  have  cause  to  bless  them  and  the  son  in  whose  name 
their  good  works  have  been  done — cause  to  bless  Beckett 
kindness,  Beckett  money  for  generations  in  the  future! 
Yet  now  they  have  added  this  most  ambitious  plan  of  all 
to  the  list,  and  I  know  it  will  be  carried  out  to  perfection. 

You  see  now,  Padre,  from  what  I've  told  you,  how  easy 
it  is  being  made  for  me  to  slip  out  of  this  circle.  Brian, 
beaming  with  happiness,  and  on  the  point  of  opening  his 
heart  to  Dierdre's  almost  worshipping  love:  Mother 
Beckett  slowly  getting  back  a  measure  of  frail,  flower-like 
health,  in  this  lovely  place  which  she  calls  Jim's:  Father 
Beckett  more  at  ease  about  her,  and  intensely  interested 
in  his  scheme:  the  small,  neat  Belgian  refugette  likely  to 
prove  at  least  a  ministering  mouse  if  not  a  ministering 
angel:  above  all,  hope  if  not  certainty  that  Jim  will  one 


338  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

day  return — not  only  in  spirit  but  in  body — to  his  chateau 
and  his  family.  If  I  am  needed  anywhere  on  earth,  it 
isn't  here,  but  down  in  the  south  at  my  poor  Hopital  des 
Epidemics.  Would  it  be  cowardly  in  me  to  fly,  as  soon 
as  I've  persuaded  the  Becketts  to  spare  me,  and  throw  the 
responsibility  I  haven't  dared  decide  to  take,  upon  my 
brave,  blind  Brian? 

Ah,  I  don't  mean  telling  him  about  myself  and  my  sins. 
I  shouldn't  have  the  courage  for  that,  I  fear!  I  mean, 
shall  I  tell  him  about  Doctor  Paul's  message — or  supposed 
message?  It  has  just  occurred  to  me  that  I  might  do 
this,  and  let  Brian  decide  whether  Father  Beckett  ought  to 
know,  even  if  no  further  news  comes  through  Switzerland. 
You  see,  if  I  were  gone,  and  Jim  came,  I  could  trust  the 
new  Dierdre  to  do  her  best  for  me  with  Brian.  He 
could  never  respect  me,  never  love  me  in  the  old  way — but 
he  might  forgive,  because  of  Dierdre  herself — and  because 
of  the  great  Plan.  Hasn't  my  wickedness  given  them  both 
to  him? 

Writing  all  this  to  you  has  done  me  good,  Padre.  I  see 
more  clearly  ahead.  I  shall  decide  before  morning  what 
to  do.  I  feel  I  shall  this  time !  And  I  think  it  a  good  idea 
to  speak  to  Brian.  He  will  agree,  though  he  doesn't  know 
my  secret  need  to  escape,  that  it's  right  for  me  to  take  up 
hospital  work  again.  But,  Padre,  I  can't  go — I  wont 
go — until  I've  helped  Mother  Beckett  arrange  Jim's  treas 
ures  in  the  room  to  be  called  his  "den."  She  has  been 
living  for  that,  striving  to  grow  strong  enough  for  that. 
And  I — oh,  Padre! — I  want  to  be  the  one  to  unpack  his 
things  and  to  touch  each  one  with  my  hands.  I  want  to 
leave  something  of  myself  in  that  room  where,  if  he's  dead,, 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  339 

his  spirit  will  surely  come:  where,  if  he  lives,  his  body 
will  come.  If  I  leave  behind  me  thoughts  of  love,  won't 
they  linger  between  those  walls  like  the  scent  of  roses 
in  a  vase?  Mayn't  those  thoughts  influence  Jim  Beckett 
not  to  detest  me  as  I  deserve? 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

FIVE  days  later. 
I  did  talk  to  Brian,  Padre,  and  he  said,  better 
wait  and  give  the  letter  from  Switzerland  a  fair 
chance  to  arrive,  before  telling  Father  Beckett  about  Doc 
tor  Paul's  messenger  at  Amiens. 

Now  I  have  had  a  letter,  but  not  from  Switzerland.  I 
shall  fold  it  up  between  the  pages  of  this  book  of  my  con 
fessions.  I  believe  you  will  read  it,  Padre. 

It  came  to-day.  It  explains  itself.  The  envelope, 
postmarked  Paris,  was  addressed  to  me  in  typewriting, 
If  Mother  Beckett  had  not  had  a  slight  relapse  from  work 
ing  too  hard  in  the  den,  I  might  perhaps  have  been  gone 
before  the  letter  came.  Then  it  would  have  had  to  be 
forwarded.  It's  better  that  I  stayed.  You  will  see  why. 
But— oh,  Padre,  Padre! 

THE    LETTER 

"Miss  O'MALLEY, 

"Once  I  met  a  lady  whose  name,  as  I  understood  it,  was  not 
unlike  yours  now,  given  me  by  Doctor  Paul  Herter.  I  cannot 
think  that  you  and  she  are  one.  That  lady,  I'd  swear,  would  be 
incapable  of — let  me  say,  placing  herself  in  a  false  position. 

"Though  you  will  not  recognize  my  handwriting,  I've  said 
enough  for  you  to  guess  that  James  Wyndham  Beckett  is  your 
correspondent.  I  have  had  the  address  typed  because,  for  my 
parents'  sake  and  to  spare  them  distress,  it  seems  that  you  and  I 

340 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  541 

must  reach  some  understanding  before  I  venture  to  let  them 
know  that  I'm  alive. 

"If  you  are  worthy  to  be  called  'friend'  by  such  a  man  as  Paul 
Herter,  you  will  wish  to  atone  for  certain  conduct,  by  carrying 
out  the  request  I  make  now.  I  must  trust  you  to  do  so.  But 
first  let  me  relieve  my  mind  of  any  fear  for  yourself.  I  have  not 
contradicted  the  story  you  told  Herter  about  our  engagement. 
What  I  shall  say  to  my  parents  when  I  meet  them,  as  I  hope  soon 
to  do,  depends  upon  circumstances.  Till  you  and  I  have  had  a 
private  conversation,  you  will  oblige  me  by  letting  things  re 
main  as  they  are.  I  have  strong  reasons  for  this  wish.  One  of 
them — the  only  one  I  need  explain  now,  is  that  it  will  seem 
natural  to  them  I  should  write  to  my  fiancee — a  young,  strong 
girl  able  to  bear  the  shock  of  a  great  surprise — asking  her  to  break 
the  news  gently  and  tactfully  to  my  father  and  mother.  I  do 
ask  you  to  do  this.  How  to  do  it  I  must  leave  to  you.  But 
when  you've  told  my  parents  that  I'm  alive,  that  I've  escaped, 
that  I'm  in  Paris  with  Herter,  that  as  soon  as  my  official  business 
of  reporting  myself  is  finished,  I'll  get  leave,  you  may  put  into 
their  hands  the  following  pages  of  this  letter.  They  will  not 
think  it  strange  that  the  girl  I  am  engaged  to  should  keep  the 
first  part  for  her  own  eyes.  Thus,  without  your  being  com 
promised,  they  will  learn  my  adventures  without  having  to 
wait  until  I  come.  But  there's  just  room  enough  left  on  this 
first  sheet  to  reiterate  that,  when  Herter  found  me,  and  gave 
me  the  somewhat  disconcerting  news  of  my  engagement  to 
his  friend,  a  Miss  O'Malley  travelling  with  my  parents,  I — simply 
listened.  Rather  than  excite  his  suspicions  I  did  not  even 
yield  to  curiosity,  and  try  to  draw  out  a  description.  I  could 
not  be  sure  then  that  I  should  ever  see  you,  or  my  people,  for 
escape  was  difficult  and  there  were  more  chances  against  than 
for  my  getting  out  of  Germany  alive.  Now,  in  all  human  cer 
tainty  I  shall  arrive  at  the  Chateau  d'Andelle  (I  got  the  address 


342  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

at  the  bank),  and  you  owe  it  to  me  to  remain  on  the  spot  till  we 
can  thrash  out  our  affair  together.  I  will  begin  on  a  new  sheet 
the  story  of  the  last  few  months  since  my  capture.  You  must 
forgive  me  if  it  bores  you.  In  reality  it  is  for  my  parents,  when 
you  have  prepared  their  minds,  and  I  don't  think  it  will  bore 
them.  .  .  . 

"We  came  a  bad  cropper.  I  was  thrown  clear  of  the  machine, 
but  knew  nothing  until  I  waked  up,  feeling  like  a  bag  of  broken 
bones.  It  was  night,  and  I  saw  a  huge  fountain  of  red  flame  and 
a  lot  of  dark  figures  like  silhouettes  moving  between  it  and  me. 
That  brought  me  out  of  my  stupor.  I  knew  my  plane  must  have 
taken  fire  as  it  crashed  down,  and  I  was  pretty  sure  the  silhou 
ettes  were  Germans.  I  looked  around  for  my  observer,  and 
called  to  him  in  a  low  voice,  hoping  the  Bosch  wouldn't  hear, 
over  the  noise  of  the  fire.  Nobody  answered.  Later  I  found  out 
that  the  poor  chap  had  been  caught  under  the  car.  I  pray  he 
died  before  the  flames  reached  him ! 

"As  I  got  my  wits  back,  I  planned  to  try  and  hide  myself  under 
some  bushes  I  could  see  not  far  off,  till  the  coast  was  clear;  but  I 
couldn't  move.  I  seemed  to  be  thoroughly  smashed  up,  and 
began  to  think  it  was  the  end  of  things  id-las  for  me.  After 
a  while  I  must  have  fainted.  By  and  by  I  had  a  dream  of  jolting 
along  through  a  blazing  desert,  on  the  back  of  a  lame  camel.  It 
was  rather  fierce,  that  jolting !  It  shook  me  out  of  my  faint,  and 
when  I  opened  my  eyes  it  was  to  find  myself  on  a  stretcher 
carried  by  fellows  in  German  gray.  They  took  me  to  a  field 
hospital,  and  I  guessed  by  the  look  of  things  that  it  was  close  to 
the  first  lines.  It  made  me  sick  to  think  how  near  I  must  be  to 
our  own  front — yet  so  far ! 

"Well,  I  won't  be  long-winded  about  what  happened  next. 
I  can  go  into  details  when  we  meet.  It  turned  out  that  I  had 
a  leg,  an  arm,  and  some  ribs  smashed.  The  Bosch  surgeon 
wasn't  half  bad,  as  Bosches  go,  but  he  was  a  bit  brusque.  I 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  343 

heard  him  say  right  out  to  the  anaesthetist,  it  seemed  a  pity 
to  waste  good  ether  on  me,  as  there  wasn't  one  chance  in  five 
to  save  my  life.  Still,  I'd  be  an  experiment!  Before  I  went 
off  under  the  stuff  I  told  them  who  I  was,  for  I'd  heard  they  were 
sometimes  fairly  decent  to  enemy  aviators,  and  I  hoped  to  get  a 
message  through  to  my  people.  I  was  feeling  as  stupid  as  an 
owl,  but  I  did  think  I  saw  a  change  come  over  the  men's  faces 
when  they  heard  my  name.  Later,  putting  two  and  two  to 
gether,  I  concluded  that  Germany  was  just  the  kind  of  business 
nation  to  know  all  about  the  dear  old  Governor.  I  might  have 
realized  that,  out  of  sheer  spite  against  the  United  States  for 
bursting  into  the  war,  they'd  enjoy  letting  a  man  of  James  Beckett 
Senior's  importance  go  on  believing  his  son  was  dead.  I  bet 
they  put  my  name  over  the  grave  of  my  poor,  burned  pal,  Hank 
Lee !  It  would  be  the  thoroughgoing  sort  of  thing  they  do,  when 
they  make  up  their  minds  to  create  an  impression. 

"I  didn't  die,  though!  Spite  for  spite,  I  got  well.  But  it 
took  some  time.  One  of  my  lungs  had  been  damaged  a  bit 
by  a  broken  rib,  and  the  doctors  prescribed  an  open-air  cure, 
after  I'd  begun  to  crawl  again.  I  was  put  with  a  lot  of  T.  B.'s, 
if  you  know  what  that  means,  in  a  camp  hospital.  Not  far 
off  was  a  huge  'camouflaged'  aerodrome  and  a  village  of  hangars. 
I  heard  that  flying  men  were  being  trained  there.  I  used  to  think 
I'd  give  my  head  to  get  to  the  place,  but  I  never  hoped  to  do  it — 
till  Herter  came. 

"Now  I  will  tell  you  how  he  came — which  I  can  freely  do, 
as  we  are  both  safe  in  Paris,  having  come  from  somewhere 
near  Compiegne.  One  of  the  first  things  Herter  said  about  you 
was  that  you  must  have  guessed  where  he  was  going,  and  more 
or  less  for  what  purpose.  For  that  purpose  he  was  the  ideal 
man:  a  Lorrainer  of  Germanized  Lorraine;  German  his  native 
tongue — (though  he  hates  it) — and  clever  as  Machiavelli.  He 
"escaped"  from  France  into  Germany,  told  a  tale  about  killing 


344  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

a  French  sentry  and  creeping  across  No  Man's  Land  at  night,  in 
order  to  get  to  the  German  lines.  It  was  a  big  risk,  but  Herter 
is  as  brave  and  resourceful  a  man  as  I  ever  met.  He  got  the 
Bosches  to  believe  that  he  was  badly  ill  in  Paris  when  the  war 
broke  out  and  couldn't  slip  away,  otherwise  he'd  have  sprung  to 
do  his  loyal  duty  to  the  Fatherland.  He  persuaded  them  that 
his  lot  being  cast  in  France  for  the  time,  he'd  resolved  to  serve 
Germany  by  spying,  until  he  could  somehow  bolt  across  the 
frontier.  He  spun  a  specious  tale  about  pretending  to  the  French 
to  have  French  sympathies,  and  winning  the  confidence  of 
high-up  men,  by  serving  as  a  surgeon  on  several  fronts.  To 
prove  his  German  patriotism  he  had  notes  to  show,  realistically 
made  on  thin  silk  paper,  and  hidden  inside  the  lining  of  his 
coati 

" Herter 's  mission  in  Boschland  isn't  my  business  or  yours; 
but  I'm  allowed  to  say  that  it  was  concerned  with  aeroplanes. 
There  was  something  he  had  to  find  out,  and  he  has  found  it 
out,  or  he  wouldn't  be  back  on  this  side  of  the  lines.  Because  he 
hoped  to  be  among  German  flying-men,  he  hinted  to  you  that 
he  might  be  able  to  do  you  some  service.  It  occurred  to  him 
that  he  might  learn  where  my  grave  was  and  let  you  know. 
Nothing  further  was  hi  his  thoughts  then — or  until  he  happened 
to  draw  out  a  piece  of  unexpected  information  in  a  roundabout 
way. 

"His  trick  of  getting  across  to  the  flying-men  was  smart,  like 
all  his  tricks.  The  valuable  (?)  notes  he'd  brought  into  Germany 
mostly  concerned  new  French  and  American  inventions  in  that 
line.  That  was  his  'speciality.'  And  when  he  had  handed  the 
notes  over  with  explanations,  he  continued  his  programme  by 
asking  for  a  job  as  surgeon  in  a  field  hospital.  (You  see,  he  hoped 
to  get  back  to  France  before  the  worthlessness  of  his  notes  was 
discovered.)  When  he'd  proved  his  qualifications,  he  got  his 
job  like  a  shot.  They  were  only  too  glad  of  his  services.  Pre- 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  345 

tending  to  have  been  in  American  training-camps,  it  was  easy 
to  bring  up  my  name  in  a  casual  way.  Laughing  that  rather 
sinister  laugh  of  his,  which  you  will  remember,  Herter  told  a 
couple  of  flying  chaps  he  had  promised  a  girl  to  find  Jim  Beckett's 
grave.  One  of  the  fellows  laughed  too,  and  made  a  remark 
which  set  Herter  thinking.  Later,  he  was  able  to  refer  to 
the  subject  again,  and  learned  enough  to  suspect  that  there  was 
something  fishy  about  the  Bosch  announcement  of  my  death  and 
burial.  He  tells  me  that,  at  this  point,  he  was  able  to  send  you  a 
verbal  message  by  a  consumptive  prisoner  about  to  be  repatri 
ated.  Whether  you  got  that  message  or  not  who  knows? 

"His  idea  was  to  send  another  (in  a  way  he  won't  explain 
even  to  me)  when  he'd  picked  up  further  news.  But  as  things 
turned  out,  there  was  no  time.  Besides,  it  wasn't  necessary. 
It  looked  hopeful  that  we  might  be  our  own  carrier  pigeons,  or 
else — cease  to  exist. 

"What  happened  was  that  Herter  heard  I  was  alive  and  in  a 
hospital  not  far  behind  the  lines.  Just  at  this  time  he  had  got 
hold  of  the  very  secret  he'd  come  to  seek.  The  sooner  he  could 
make  a  dash  for  home  the  better:  but  if  possible,  he  wished  to 
take  me  with  him.  He  had  the  impression  that  to  do  so  would 
please  his  friend  Miss  O'Malley!  How  it  was  to  be  worked  he 
didn't  see  until  an  odd  sort  of  American  bombing  machine  fell, 
between  an  aerodrome  it  had  attempted  to  destroy,  and  Herter's 
hospital.  They  knew  it  was  American,  only  because  of  its  two 
occupants,  both  killed.  The  machine  was  considerably  smashed 
up,  but  experts  found  traces  of  something  amazingly  novel,  which 
they  couldn't  understand.  Herter  was  called  to  the  scene,  be 
cause  he  had  pretended  to  be  up  in  the  latest  American  flying 
'stunts.'  The  minute  he  saw  the  wreckage  an  inspiration 
jumped  into  his  head. 

"He  confessed  himself  puzzled  by  the  mysterious  .details, 
thought  them  important,  and  said:  'It  seems  to  me  this 


546  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

resembles  the  engine  and  wings  of  the  James  Beckett  invention 
I  heard  so  much  about.  But  I  didn't  know  it  was  far  enough 
ahead  yet  to  be  in  use.  A  pity  the  inventor  was  killed.  He 
might  have  come  in  handy. 

"Well,  they  put  those  words  in  their  pipes  and  smoked  them — 
knowing,  of  course,  that  I  was  very  much  alive  and  almost 
within  a  stone's  throw. 

"I  had  always  pretended  not  to  understand  German:  thought 
ignorance  of  the  language  might  serve  my  plans  some  day  or 
ether.  The  chap  they  sent  to  fetch  me  dropped  a  few  words  to  a 
doctor  in  my  hearing.  And  so,  though  I  wasn't  told  where  I  was 
being  taken  or  why  I  was  to  go,  I'd  about  caught  on  to  the  fact 
that  I  was  supposed  to  have  invented  the  plans  for  a  new  bombing 
biplane.  That  made  me  wonder  if  a  friend  was  at  work  under 
the  rose:  and  I  was  ready  for  anything  when  I  got  to  the  scene 
of  the  smash. 

"Fortunately,  none  of  the  Bosches  on  the  spot  could  speak 
English  fluently,  and  I  appeared  more  of  a  fool  at  French  than 
German.  Herter — entirely  trusted  by  his  German  pals — was 
told  off  to  talk  English  with  me;  and  a  flash  of  his  eye  said,  here 
was  the  friend !  It  was  only  a  flash,  and  I  couldn't  be  sure,  but 
it  put  me  on  the  qui  vive.  I  noticed  that  in  asking  me  the 
question  he  was  told  to  ask,  he  emphasized  certain  words  which 
needed  no  emphasis,  and  spoke  them  slowly,  with  a  look  that 
made  me  determine  to  fix  each  one  in  my  mind.  This  I  did,  and 
putting  them  together  when  I  got  the  chance,  I  made  out,  'I 
want  to  get  you  home.  Say  you  invented  this  model,  and  could 
put  the  thing  hi  working  trim.' 

"That  was  a  big  order!  If  I  said  it  and  could  keep  my  word, 
would  it  be  a  patriotic  job  to  present  the  enemy  with  a  per 
fectly  good  machine,  of  a  new  make,  in  the  place  of  a  wreck  they 
didn't  understand?  This  was  my  first  thought.  But  the 
second  reminded  me  of  a  sentence  I'd  constructed  with  some  of 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  34T 

the  emphasized  words;  '/  want  to  get  you  home.'  How  did  he 
expect  to  get  me  home — if  not  by  air? 

"With  that  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  plan,  as  one  some 
times  catches  sight  of  the  earth  through  a  break  in  massed 
clouds  when  flying.  If  the  man  meant  to  help  me,  I  would  help 
him.  If  he  turned  out  a  fraud,  the  Germans  shouldn't  profit 
by  his  treachery  I'd  stop  that  game  at  the  last  moment,  if  I  died 
for  it! 

"You  will  know  nothing  about  the  new  and  curious  bombing 
biplane  of  super-speed  invented  by  Leroy  Harman  of  Galbraith, 
Texas.  But  Father  knows  as  much  as  any  one  not  an  expert  in 
aeronautics  can  know.  When  the  Government  wouldn't  believe 
in  Harman,  Father  financed  him  by  my  advice.  I  left  home  for 
France  before  the  trial  machine  that  was  to  convince  officialdom 
had  come  into  being;  and  I  didn't  even  know  whether  it  had 
made  good.  But  the  minute  I  saw  what  lay  on  the  ground f 
surrounded  by  a  ring  of  Germans,  I  said  to  myself;  'Good  old 
Leroy !' 

"I'd  seen  so  much  of  his  plans  that  they  remained  printed  on 
my  brain,  and  I  could — if  I  would — set  that  biplane  on  its  wings 
again  almost  as  easily  as  if  I  had  invented  it. 

"Odd  that  the  Bosches  and  I  both  trusted  Herter,  seeing  he 
must  be  false  to  one  side  or  other!  But  he's  that  sort  of  man. 
And  I  always  take  a  tip  from  my  own  instinct  before  listening  to 
my  reason.  Maybe  that's  why  I  didn't  do  badly  in  my  brief 
career  as  a  flier.  Anyhow,  I  played  up  to  Herter;  and  I  got  the 
job  of  superintending  the  reconstruction  of  poor  Harman's 
damaged  machine.  It  was  a  lovely  job  for  a  prisoner,  though 
they  watched  me  as  a  German  cat  would  watch  an  Allied  mouse. 
Herter  was  nearly  always  on  the  spot,  however,  for  he'd  made 
himself  responsible  for  me.  Also,  he'd  offered  to  pump  me  about 
what  was  best  hi  the  air  world  on  my  side  of  the  water:  how 
many  aeroplanes  of  different  sorts  America  could  turn  out  ia 


348  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

six  months,  etc.  We  contrived  a  cypher  on  diagrams  I  made, 
It  was  a  clever  one,  but  the  credit  was  Herter's. 

"The  Bosches  were  waiting  impatiently  for  my  work  to  be 
done,  in  order  to  try  out  the  machine,  and  if  satisfactory,  spawn 
a  brood  of  their  own  on  the  same  model.  I  was  equally  impa 
tient.  I  hoped  to  fly  off  with  the  biplane  before  they  had  time 
to  copy  it ! 

"A  wounded  Ace  of  theirs,  Anton  Hupfer,  was  for  ever  hang- 
Lag  round.  He  was  to  take  up  the  'plane  when  it  was  ready. 
But  Herter  industriously  chummed  with  him,  and  not  for  no 
thing.  To  Herter  was  due  the  'discovery'  of  the  inventor; 
and  as  he  boasted  experience  in  flying,  he  asked  the  privilege 
of  being  Hupfer 's  companion  on  the  trial  trip. 

"The  success  of  this  trip  would  depend  even  more  on  the 
machine's  worth  as  a  bomber  than  on  her  speed  and  climbing 
qualities.  It  was,  therefore,  to  be  undertaken  at  night,  with  a 
full  complement  of  real  bombs  to  drop  upon  headquarters  at 
Compiegne.  Herter  had  suggested  this.  Daylight  wouldn't 
have  suited  for  a  start. 

"An  hour  before  the  appointed  time  he  dashed  in  upon  Hupfer 
to  confide  that  a  sudden  suspicion  concerning  me  was  troubling 
him.  He  had  noticed  a  queer  expression  on  my  face  as  I  gave 
the  engine  a  last  look  over !  If  I  had  done  some  obscure  damage 
to  this  so  new  type  of  machine,  the  mechanics  might  not  detect 
its  nature.  Herter  didn't  wish  to  harm  me,  if  his  suspicion 
was  unfounded,  he  explained,  but  he  proposed  a  drastic  proof 
of  my  good  faith.  I  was  to  be  hauled  out  of  bed,  and  hurried 
without  warning  to  look  at  the  biplane  in  her  hangar.  The 
mechanics  were  to  be  sent  outside,  there  to  wait  for  a  signal  to 
open  the  doors:  this  to  avoid  gossip  if  I  was  honest  after  alL 
Hupfer  was  to  spring  it  on  me  that  he'd  decided  to  take  me  up 
instead  of  Herter.  My  face  was  to  be  watched  as  this  news  was 
flung  at  me.  If  I  showed  the  slightest  trace  of  uneasiness,  it 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  349 

would  be  a  sign  that  I  had  played  a  trick  and  feared  to  fall  its 
victim.  In  that  case  the  'third  degree'  was  to  be  applied  until  I 
owned  up,  and  could  be  haled  away  for  punishment. 

"There  was  just  time  to  carry  out  this  programme,  and 
Hupfer  fell  for  it.  Herter  had  put  me  wise  beforehand,  and 
I  knew  what  to  expect.  His  real  plan  was  to  stand  behind 
Hupfer,  the  Bosch  Ace,  and  bash  him  on  the  head  with  a 
spanner,  while  his  (Hupfer's)  whole  attention  was  fixed  on 
me.  We  would  then  undress  the  fellow.  I  would  take  his 
clothes,  and  we'd  put  him  into  mine.  Hupfer/'s  body  (stunned, 
not  dead,  we  hoped)  we  would  lay  behind  a  pile  of  petrol  tins.  I 
acting  as  pilot,  would  trust  to  my  disguise  and  the  darkness  of 
night  not  to  be  spotted  when  the  two  mechanics  threw  open  the 
hangar  doors. 

"Everything  happened  as  we'd  arranged,  without  a  hitch 
— again,  all  credit  to  Herter!  When  we'd  hidden  the  limp  Ace, 
trussed  up  in  my  prison  rig,  Herter  yelled  to  the  waiting  men,  in  a 
good  imitation  of  Hupfer's  voice.  We  ran  smoothly  out  of  the 
hangar,  and  were  given  a  fine  send  off.  How  soon  the  Bosches 
found  out  how  they'd  been  spoofed,  I  don't  know.  It  couldn't 
have  been  long  though,  as  my  prison  guard  was  in  attendance. 
The  great  thing  was,  we  went  up  in  grand  style.  Otherwise — but 
we  needn't  now  think  of  the  'otherwise' ! 

''Our  next  danger  lay  in  taking  the  wrong  direction,  getting 
farther  back  in  Boschland  instead  of  over  the  frontier.  I  kept 
my  wits,  fortunately,  so  that  turned  out  all  right.  Still,  there 
remained  the  chance  of  being  shot  down  by  the  French,  and 
blown  with  our  own  bombs  into  kingdom  come.  But,  by  good 
luck,  it  was  a  clear  night.  No  excuse  for  getting  lost!  And 
when  I  was  sure  we  were  well  over  the  French  lines,  I  planed 
down  to  alight  in  a  field. 

"The  alert  was  out  for  us,  of  course,  and  a  fierce  barrage  put 
up,  but  I  flew  high  till  I  was  ready  for  a  dive.  We'd  hardly  land- 


350  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

ed,  when  the  poilus  swarmed  like  bees,  but  that  was  what  we 
wanted.  You  must  imagine  the  scene  that  followed,  till  I 
can  tell  you  by  word  of  mouth ! 

"I  shall  have  made  my  report,  and  have  been  given  leavd 
to  start  for  a  visit  to  my  family  by  to-morrow  I  hope. 

*'  Yours  till  the  end, 

"JiM." 

"Yours  till  the  end!"  Rather  a  smart,  cynical  way  of 
winding  up  those  "exhibition  pages"  was  it  not,  Padre? 
The  secret  translation  of  that  signature  is:  "Yours,  you 
brute,  till  I  can  get  rid  of  you  with  least  damage  to  my 
parents'  susceptibilities ! " 

I  shall  obey,  and  wait  for  the  interview.  It's  like  wait 
ing  to  be  shot  at  dawn ! 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

I  PERSUADED  Brian  to  tell  Father  Beckett.  I  wasn't 
worthy.  But  the  dear  old  man  came  straight  to  me, 
transfigured,  to  make  me  go  with  him  to  his  wife, 
even  before  he  had  finished  reading  the  letter. 

"You  must  come,"  he  said — and  when  Father  Beckett 
says  "must,"  in  a  certain  tone,  one  does.  It's  then  that 
the  resemblance,  more  in  expression  than  feature,  between 
him  and  his  son  shines  out  like  a  light.  "It  will  save 
mother  the  trouble  of  asking  for  you,"  he  went  on,  dragging 
me  joyously  with  him,  his  arm  round  my  waist.  "She'd 
do  that,  first  thing,  sure !  Why,  do  you  suppose  we  forget 
Jim's  as  much  to  you  as  to  us?  Haven't  you  shown  us 
that,  every  day  since  we  met?  " 

What  answer  could  I  give?     I  gave  none. 

Mother  Beckett  had  been  lying  down  for  the  afternoon 
nap  which  by  my  orders  she  takes  every  day.  She'd  just 
waked,  and  was  sitting  up  on  the  lounge,  when  her  hus 
band  softly  opened  the  door  to  peep  in.  The  only  light 
was  firelight,  leaping  in  an  open  grate. 

"Come  in,  come  in!"  she  greeted  us  in  her  silver  tinkle 
of  a  voice.  "Oh,  you  didn't  disturb  me.  I  was  awake.  I 
thought  I'd  ring  for  tea.  But  I  didn't  after  all.  I'd  had 
such  a  beautiful  dream,  I  hated  to  come  out  of  it." 

"I  bet  it  was  a  dream  about  Jim!"  said  Father  Beckett. 
He  drew  me  into  the  room,  and  the  little  lady  pulled  me 

551 


352  EVERYMAN'S  LAND' 

down  beside  her  on  the  wide,  cushiony  lounge.  Her  hus 
band's  special  arm-chair  was  close  by,  but  he  didn't  sub 
side  into  it  as  usual  at  this  cosy  hour  of  the  afternoon. 
Instead,  he  knelt  stiffly  down  on  one  knee,  and  took  the 
tiny,  ringed  hand  held  out  to  him.  "You  wouldn't  think 
a  dream  beautiful,  unless  Jim  was  in  it ! " 

"Yes  I  would,  if  you  were  in  it,  dear,"  she  reproached 
him.  "Or  Molly.  But  Jim  was  in  this  dream.  I  saw 
him  as  plainly  as  I  see  you  both.  He  walked  in  at  the  door, 
the  way  he  used  to  do  at  home,  saying :  'Hello,  Mother,  I've 
been  looking  for  you  everywhere!'  You  know,  Father 
how  you  and  Jimmy  used  to  feel  injured  if  you  called  me 
and  I  couldn't  be  found  in  a  minute.  In  this  dream  though, 
we  didn't  seem  to  be  back  home.  I  wasn't  sure  where  we 

were:  only — I  was  sure "  She  stopped,  with  a  catch  in 

her  voice.  But  Father  Beckett  took  up  the  sentence  where 
she  let  it  drop.  "Sure  of  Jim?  " 

"  Yes.     He  was  so  real ! ' ' 

"Well  then,  Mother  darling,  I  guess  the  dream  ought  not 
to  have  been  back  home,  but  here,  in  this  very  house.  For 
here's  where  Jim  will  come." 

"Oh,  I  do  feel  that!"  she  agreed,  trying  to  "camouflage' 
a  tear  with  a  smile.  "Jim's  with  me  all  the  time." 

"Not  yet,"  said  Father  Beckett,  with  a  stolid  gentleness. 
"  Not  yet.  Not  the  real  Jim.  But  he'll  come." 

"You  mean,  when  Molly  and  I've  finished  putting  out 
all  his  treasures  in  the  den,  just  as  he'd  like  to  see  them?  " 

"He  might  come  before  you  get  the  den  ready.  He 
might  come — any  day  now — even  to-morrow."  The 
gnarled  brown  hand  smoothed  the  small,  shrivelled  white 
one  with  nervous  strokes  and  passes. 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  353 

"Father! "  she  sat  up  suddenly,  straight  and  rigid  among 
her  cushions.  "You've  heard — you're  trying  to  break 
something  to  me.  Tell  me  right  out.  Jim's  alive ! " 

She  snatched  her  hand  free,  and  bending  forward,  flung 
both  arms  round  the  old  man's  neck  before  he  could 
answer.  I  sprang  up  to  give  them  room.  I  thought 
they  had  forgotten  me.  But  no.  Out  came  Father  Beck 
ett's  big  hand  to  snatch  my  dress. 

"This  child  got  the  news — a  letter,"  he  explained. 
"The  boy  was  afraid  of  the  shock  for  us.  He  thought 
she " 

"A  shock  of  joy — why,  that  gives  life — not  death!" 
sobbed  and  laughed  Mother  Beckett.  "But  it  was  right 
to  let  Molly  know  first.  She's  more  to  him  than  we  are 
now.  Oh,  Father — Father — our  Jim's  alive — alive  !  I 
think  in  my  soul  I  knew  it  all  the  time.  I  never  felt  he 
was  gone.  He  must  have  sent  me  thoughts.  Dear  ones, 
I  want  to  pray.  I  want  to  thank  God — now,  this  instant, 
before  I  hear  more — before  I  read  the  letter.  We  three 
together — on  our  knees ! " 

Padre,  when  I  was  on  my  knees,  with  the  thin  little  arm 
of  Jim's  mother  thrilling  my  shoulder,  my  face  hidden  in 
the  cushions,  I  could  only  say:  "God,  forgive!"  and  echo 
the  thanksgiving  of  those  two  loving  hearts.  I  didn't 
pray  not  to  be  punished.  I  almost  want  to  be  punished — 
since  Brian  is  safe,  and  my  punishment  can't  spoil  his 
future. 

The  patriotic  Becketts  have  given  up  the  big  gray  car, 
now  they've  settled  down  at  the  Chateau  d'Andelle:  and 
our  one-legged  soldier-chauffeur  has  departed,  to  conduct 


354  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

a  military  motor.  For  the  moment  there's  only  the 
O'Farrell  Red  Cross  taxi,  not  yet  gone  about  its  legiti 
mate  business;  so  it  was  Julian  who  took  Father  Beckett 
to  the  far-off  railway  station,  to  meet  Jim  Beckett  the  next 
day  but  one — Julian — of  all  people  on  earth ! 

Father  Beckett  begged  me  to  be  of  the  party,  and 
Mother  Beckett — too  frail  still  for  so  long  and  cold  a 
drive — piled  up  her  persuasions.  But  I  was  firm.  I 
didn't  like  going  to  meet  trams,  I  said.  It  was  prosaic. 
I  was  allowed  to  stop  at  home,  therefore,  with  my  dear 
little  lady:  the  last  time,  I  told  myself,  that  she  would 
ever  love  and  "mother"  me.  Once  Jim  and  I  had  settled 
our  affairs  in  that  "interview"  I  was  ordered  to  wait  for, 
I  should  be  the  black  sheep,  turned  out  of  the  fold. 

There  was  just  one  reason  why  I'd  have  liked  to  be  in  the 
car  to  bring  Jim  back  from  the  station.  Knowing  Julian- 
Puck,  I  was  convinced  that  despite  Father  Beckett's  pre 
sence  he'd  contrive  a  chance  to  thrust  some  entering  wedge 
of  mischief  into  Jim  Beckett's  head.  Not  that  it  was 
needed!  If  he'd  read  the  first  pages  of  Jim's  letter — the 
secret  pages — he  would  have  known  that.  But  the  night 
the  great  news  came  to  the  chateau,  he  whispered  into 
my  ear:  "You  seem  to  be  taking  things  easy.  Sure  you 
won't  change  your  mind  and  bolt  with  me? — or  do  you 
count  on  your  invincible  charm,  "  iiber  alles  "  ? 

I  didn't  even  answer.  I  merely  looked.  Perhaps  he 
took  it  for  a  defiant  look,  though  Heaven  knows  it  wasn't. 
I  was  past  defiance.  In  any  case,  such  as  the  look  was,  it 
shut  him  up.  And  after  that  the  brooding  storm  behind 
his  eyes  made  me  wonder  (when  I'd  time  to  think  of  it) 
what  coup  he  was  meditating.  There  would  never  be  a 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  355 

chance  like  the  chance  at  the  station  before  Jim  had  met 
me.  Julian  was  sharp  enough,  dramatic  enough  to  see 
that.  I  pictured  him  somehow  corralling  Jim  for  an 
instant,  while  Father  Beckett  carried  on  a  conversation 
of  signs  with  a  worried  porteuse.  Julian  would  be  able 
to  do  in  an  instant  as  much  damage  to  a  character  as  most 
men  could  do  in  an  hour! 

A  little  added  disgust  for  me  on  Jim's  part,  however, 
what  could  it  matter?  I  tried  to  argue.  When  a  thing  is 
already  black,  can  it  be  painted  blacker? 

Still,  I  was  foolish  enough  to  wish  that  our  good  old  one- 
legged  soldier  might  have  stayed  to  bring  Jim  home. 

Mother  Beckett  would  have  compelled  me  to  be  with 
her  at  the  open  door  to  meet  "our  darling  boy,"  but  that 
I  could  not  bear.  It  would  be  as  trying  for  him  as  for  me, 
and  I  had  to  spare  him  the  ordeal  at  any  price. 

"Don't  make  me  do  that."  I  begged,  with  real  tears  in 
my  voice.  "I — I've  set  my  heart  on  seeing  Jim  for  the 
first  time  alone.  He  wants  it  too — I  know  he  does." 

She  gazed  at  me  for  some  long  seconds,  with  the  clear 
blue  eyes  which  seemed — though  only  seemed! — to  read 
my  soul.  In  reality  she  saw  quite  another  soul  than  mine. 
The  darling  crystallizes  to  radiant  beauty  all  souls  of 
those  she  loves,  as  objects  are  crystallized  by  frost,  or  by 
sparkling  salt  in  a  salt  mine. 

"Well,  you  must  have  a  good  and  loving  reason,  I'm 
sure.  And  probably  your  love  has  taught  you  to  know 
better  than  I  can,what  Jim  would  want  you  to  do,"jshe  said. 
"It  shall  be  just  as  you  wish,  dear.  Only  you  must  grant 
one  little  favour  in  return  to  please  me.  You  are  to  wait 


356  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

for  Jim  in  the  den.  When  his  Father  and  I  have  hugged 
and  kissed  him  a  few  times,  and  made  certain  he's  not  one 
of  my  dreams,  we'll  lead  him  up  to  that  door,  and  leave 
him  outside.  It  shall  be  my  hand  that  shuts  the  door  when 
he's  gone  in.  And  I  shan't  tell  him  one  word  about  the  den. 
It  shall  be  a  surprise.  But  he  won't  notice  a  thing  until — 
until  you  and  he  have  been  together  for  a  while,  I  guess — 
not  even  the  hobby-horse !  He'll  see  nothing  except  you, 
Molly— you!" 

I  implored — I  argued — in  vain.  The  making  of  the  den 
had  been  her  inspiration.  It  was  monstrous  that  I  should 
have  to  greet  her  son  there.  The  pleasure  of  the  den- 
surprise  would  be  for  ever  spoilt  for  Jim.  But  I  couldn't 
explain  that  to  his  mother.  I  had  to  yield  at  last,  tongue- 
tied  and  miserable  beyond  words. 

"I  haven't  described  the  den  to  you,  Padre.  I  will  do  it 
now,  in  the  pause,  the  hush,  before  the  storm. 

It's  a  quaint  room,  with  a  little  round  tower  in  each  of 
the  two  front  corners.  One  of  these  Mother  Beckett  has 
turned  into  a  refuge  for  broken-down  toys,  all  Jim's  early 
favourites,  which  he'd  never  let  her  throw  away:  the 
famous  spotted  hobby-horse  starred  in  the  centre  of  the 
stage:  oh,  but  a  noble,  red-nostrilled  beast,  whose  eternal 
prance  has  something  of  the  endless  dignity  of  the  Laocoon ! 
The  second  tower  is  a  miniature  library,  whose  shelves 
are  crowded  with  the  pet  books  of  Jim's  boyhood — queer 
books,  some  of  them,  for  a  child  to  choose:  "Byron," 
"Letters  of  Pliny,"  Plutarch's  "Lives,"  Gibbon's 
"Rome,"  "Morte  d'Arthur,"  Maeterlinck's  "Life  of  the 
Bee,"  Kingsland's  "Scientific  Idealism,"  with  several  quite 
learned  volumes  of  astronomy  and  geology,  side  by  side 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  357 

with  Gulliver  and  all  kinds  of  travel  and  story-books 
which  we  have  most  of  us  adored.  It  was  I  who  had 
the  task  of  sorting  and  arranging  this  motley  collection, 
and  I  can  hardly  tell  you,  Padre,  how  I  loved  doing  it ! 

The  room  isn't  large,  so  the  ten  or  twelve  pictures  on  the 
walls  are  not  lost  in  a  desert  of  bare  spaces.  These  pic 
tures,  the  toys,  the  books,  tennis-rackets,  golf-clubs  and 
two  lovely  old  Persian  prayer-rugs  are  all  of  Jim's  treasures 
brought  to  France.  He  must  have  been  a  boy  of  individ 
ual,  independent  nature,  for  it  seems  he  disliked  the 
idea  of  killing  things  for  pleasure,  and  was  never  a  hunter 
or  even  a  fisherman.  Consequently,  there  are  no  monster 
fish  under  glass,  or  rare  birds  or  butterflies,  or  stuffed 
animals.  He  must  have  loved  wild  creatures  though,  for 
five  of  the  beloved  pictures  are  masterly  oil-paintings  by 
well-known  artists,  of  lions  and  tigers  and  stags,  chez  euxy 
happy  and  at  home,  not  being  hunted,  or  standing  agonized 
at  bay.  Oh,  getting  this  den  in  order  has  taught  me  more 
about  the  real  Jim  than  a  girl  can  learn  about  a  man  in 
ordinary  acquaintance  in  a  year!  But  then  I  had  a  won 
derful  foundation  to  begin  building  upon:  that  day  in  the 
rose-arbour — the  red-rose  day  of  my  life. 

Well,  when  the  car  was  expected  back  from  the  station, 
bringing  Jim  home  to  his  mother,  I  went  by  her  command 
to  the  den.  Even  that  was  better  than  having  to  meet 
him  in  the  presence  of  those  two  dear  souls  who  trusted 
and  loved  me  only  second  to  him.  And  yet  everything  in 
the  den  which  had  meant  something  in  Jim's  life,  seemed  to 
cry  out  at  me,  as  I  shut  the  door  and  stood  alone  with  them 
' — and  my  pounding  heart — to  wait. 

I  didn't  know  how  to  make  the  time  pass.     I  was  too 


358  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

restless  to  sit  down.  I  wouldn't  let  myself  look  out  of  the 
window  to  see  the  car  come  along  the  drive.  I  dared  not 
walk  up  and  down  like  the  caged  thing  I  was,  lest  the  floor 
should  creak,  for  the  tower-room — the  den — is  over  the 
entrance-hall.  I  felt  like  a  hunted  animal — I,  the  one 
creature  to  whom  Jim  Beckett  deliberately  meant  to  be 
cruel !  I,  in  this  room  which  was  a  tribute  to  his  kindness 
of  heart,  his  faithfulness,  his  loyalty!  But  why  should  it 
not  be  so?  I  had  no  right  to  call  upon  these  qualities  of 
his. 

The  horn  of  the  little  Red  Cross  taxi!  It  must  be 
turning  in  at  the  gate.  How  well  I  knew  its  gay,  con 
ceited  tootle!  An  eighth  of  a  mile,  and  the  car  would 
reach  the  house.  Even  the  poor  worn-out  taxi  couldn't 
be  five  minutes  doing  that!  .  .  . 

If  I  ran  to  the  window  between  the  towers  I  could  see ! 
No,  I  wouldn't;  I  couldn't.  I  should  scream — or  faint — 
or  do  something  else  idiotic,  if  I  saw  Jim  Beckett  getting 
out  of  the  car,  and  his  mother  flying  to  meet  him.  I  had 
never  felt  like  this  in  my  whole  life — not  in  any  suspense, 
not  in  any  danger. 

Instinctively  I  walked  as  far  from  the  window  as  I  could. 
I  sought  sanctuary  under  Brian's  cathedral  picture — the 
picture  that  had  introduced  me  to  Jim.  Yes,  sanctuary  I 
sought,  for  in  that  room  my  brother's  work  was  my  one 
excuse  to  intrude ! 

By  this  time  the  car  must  have  arrived.  The  front  door 
must  have  flown  open  in  welcome.  Now  Mother  Beckett 
must  be  crying  tears  of  joy  in  the  arms  of  her  son,  Father 
Beckett  gazing  at  the  blessed  sight,  speechless  with 
ecstasy ! 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  359 

What  should  I  be  doing  at  this  moment,  if  I  had  yielded 
to  their  wish  and  stopped  downstairs  with  them?  Just 
how  far  would  Jim  have  gone  in  keeping  up  the  tragic 
farce  ?  Would  he  have  kissed  me  ?  Would  he ? 

The  vision  was  so  blazing  bright  that  I  covered  my  eyes 
to  shut  it  out.  Not  that  I  hated  it.  Oh  no,  I  loved  it  too 
well! 

So,  for  a  while,  I  stood,  my  hands  pressed  over  my  eyes, 
my  ears  strained  to  catch  distant  sounds — yet  wishing  not 
to  hear.  Suddenly,  close  by,  there  came  the  click  of  a 
latch.  My  hands  dropped  like  broken  clock  weights.  I 
opened  my  eyes.  Jim  Beckett  was  in  the  room,  and  the 
door  was  shut. 


CHAPTER  XXXni 

I  STARED,    fascinated.     Here  was    Jim-of-the-rose- 
arbour,    and    a    new    Jim-of-the-war — a    browner, 
thinner,  sterner  Jim,  a  Jim  that  looked  at  me  with 
a  look  I  could  not  read.     It  may  have  been  cruel,  but  it 
was  not  cold,  and  it  pierced  like  a  hot  sword-blade  through 
my  flesh  into  my  soul. 

"You — after  all!"  he  said.  The  remembered  voice  I 
had  so  often  heard  in  dreams,  struck  on  my  nerves  like  a 
hand  on  the  strings  of  a  harp.  I  felt  the  vibration  thrill 
through  me. 

"Yes — it's  I."  The  answer  came  in  a  whisper  from 
dry  lips.  "I'm  sorry ! " 

"  What  are  you  sorry  for  ?     Because  you  are  you  ? ' ' 

"It  wouldn't  be — quite  so  horrible  if — I'd  been  a  stran- 
ger." 

"You  think  not?" 

"I — it  seems  as  if  I  took  advantage  of — oh,  that's  just 
what  I  did !  I'm  not  asking  you  to  forgive  me " 

"It  isn't  so  much  a  question  of  forgiving,  as  putting 
things  straight.  We  must  put  them  straight 

"I'll  do  whatever  you  wish,"  I  promised.  "Only — let 
me  go  soon." 

"Are  you  afraid  of  me?"  There  was  sharpness  in  his 
tone. 

"  Not  afraid.     I  am — utterly  humiliated." 

360 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  361 

"Why  did  you  do  this — thing?  Let's  have  that  out 
first."  ' 

"The  thought  came  into  my  head  when  I  was  at  my  wits' 
end — f or  my  brother.  Not  that  that's  an  excuse ! " 

"I'm  not  worrying  about  excuses.  It's  explanations  I 
need,  I  had  my  own  theories — thinking  it  all  over — and 
wondering — whether  it  would  be  you  or  a  stranger  I 
should  find.  The  name  was  the  one  thing  I  had  to  go  on: 
'O'Malley'  and  its  likeness  to  Ommalee.  That  was  the 
way  I  heard  your  name  pronounced,  you  know,  when  we 
met.  I  was  coming  back  to  see  you  and  make  sure.  But 
I  was  laid  up  in  Paris  with  an  attack  of  typhoid.  Per 
haps  Mother  told  you?" 

"Yes.  But  please,  let  us  not  talk  of  that!  There  isn't 
much  time.  You'll  have  to  go  back  to  Fath —  to  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Beckett.  Tell  me  quickly  what  you  want  me  to 
do." 

"I  was  forgetting  for  a  minute.  You  look  very  pale, 
Miss  O'Malley.  Hadn't  you  better  sit  down?  " 

"  No,  thank  you.     I  like  standing — where  I  am." 

"Ah!"  he  gave  a  sudden  exclamation.  At  last  he  had 
seen  Brian's  sketch.  He  had  not  noticed  it,  or  any  of  the 
"den  treasures,"  before.  He  had  looked  only  at  me. 

"Why — it's  the  picture!  And — Gee!" — his  eyes  travel 
led  round  the  room — "all  my  dear  old  things!  What  a 
mother  I've  got!"  He  gazed  about  during  a  full  minute 
of  silence,  then  turned  abruptly  back  to  me.  "You  love 
her — don't  you?  " 

"  Who  could  help  loving  her?  " 

"And  the  dear  old  Governor — you're  fond  of  him?  " 

"I  should  be  even  worse  than  I  am,  if  I  didn't  adore 


36*  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

them   both.    They   have   been — angels  to  me  and  my 
brother." 

"I'm  told  that  you  and  he  have  been  something  of  the 
same  sort  to  them." 

"Oh,  they  would  speak  kindly  of  us,  of  course! — 
They're  so  noble,  themselves,  they  judge " 

"It  was  another  person  who  told  me  the  particular  thing 
I'm  thinking  of  now." 

"Another  person?    Doctor  Paul,  I  suppose." 

"You  must  guess  again,  Miss  O'Malley." 

"I  can't  think  of  any  one  else  who  would " 

"  What  about  your  friend,  Mr.  O'Farrell?  " 

"He's  not  my  friend!"  I  cried.  "Oh,  I  knew  he'd 
somehow  contrive  a  chance  to  talk  to  you  alone,  about 
me!" 

"He  certainly  did.  And  what  he  said  impressed  me  a 
good  deal." 

"Most  likely  it's  untrue." 

"Too  likely!  I'm  very  anxious  to  find  out  from  head 
quarters  if  it's  true  or  not." 

"If  you  ask  me,  I'll  answer  honestly.  I  can't  and  won't 
lie  to  you." 

"I'll  take  you  at  your  word  and  ask  you — in  a  minute. 
You  may  be  angry  when  I  do.  But — it  will  save  time. 
It'll  clear  up  all  my  difficulties  at  one  fell  swoop." 

"Why  wait  a  minute,  then?"  I  ventured,  with  faint 
bitterness,  because  his  "difficulties"  seemed  so  small  com 
pared  with  mine.  He  was  in  the  right  in  everything. 
This  was  his  home.  The  dear  Becketts  were  his  people. 
All  the  world  was  his. 

"I  wait  a  minute,  because  something  has  to  be  told  you 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  363 

before  I  can  ask  you  to  answer  any  more  questions.  When 
I  didn't  know  who  or  what  my — er — official  fiancee  would 
turn  out  to  be,  this  was  the  plan  I  made,  to  save  my 
parents'  feelings — and  yours.  I  thought  that,  when  we'd 
had  the  interview  I  asked  you  to  give  me,  we  could 
manage  to  quarrel,  or  discover  that  we  didn't  like  each 
other  as  well  as  before.  We  could  break  off  our  engage 
ment,  and  Father  and  Mother  need  never  know — how  it 
began." 

"A  very  generous  idea  of  yours!"  I  cried,  the  blood  so 
hot  in  my  cheeks  that  it  forced  tears  to  my  eyes.  "It  had 
occurred  to  me,  too,  that  for  their  sakes  we  might  manage 
that  way.  Thank  you,  Mr.  Beckett,  for  sparing  me  the 
pain — I  deserve.  I  couldn't  have  dared  hope  for  such  a 
happy  solution " 

"Couldn't  you?" 

"No.    I •-" 

"Well,  I'm  hoping  for  an  even  happier  one — a  lot  hap 
pier.  But  of  course  it  depends  on  what  you  say  to  Mr. 
O'Farrell's — accusation." 

"He — made  an  accusation?" 

"Listen,  and  tell  me  what  you'd  call  it  He  said  you 
told  him  at  Amiens,  when  he  asked  you  to  marry  him,  that 
— you  loved  me" 

"Oh!" 

"Is  it  true?" 

"Yes,  I  did  tell  him  that " 

"I  mean,  is  it  true  that  you've  loved  me?  " 

"Mr.  Beckett,  after  all,  you  are  cruel!  You're  punish 
ing  me  very  hard." 

"  I  don't  wish  to  'punish  you  hard'  — or  at  all.     Why  am 


3G4  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

I  'cruel,'  simply  asking  if  it's  true  that  you've  loved  me? 
Of  course,  when  Mother  told  you  of  my  fever,  and  what 
I'd  said  of  this  cathedral  picture,  she  told  you  that  I  was 
dead  in  love  with  'the  Girl,'  as  I  called  you,  and  just  about 
crazy  because  I'd  lost  her.  Why  shouldn't  you  have  loved 
me  a  little  bit — say,  the  hundredth  part  as  much  as  I  loved 
you?  I'm  not  a  monster,  am  I?  And  we  both  had  exactly 
the  same  length  of  time  to  fall  in  love — whole  hours  on 
end.  Cruel  or  not  cruel,  I've  got  to  know.  Was  it  the 
truth  you  told  the  OTarrell  man?  " 

I  could  not  speak.  I  didn't  try  to  speak.  I  looked  up 
at  him.  It  must  have  been  some  such  look  as  the  Princess 
gave  St.  George  when  he  appeared  at  the  last  minute,  to 
rescue  her  from  the  dragon.  The  tears  I'd  been  holding 
back  splashed  over  my  cheeks.  Jim  gave  a  low  cry  of  pity 
• — or  love  (it  sounded  like  love)  as  he  saw  them;  and  the 
next  thing,  he  was  kissing  them  away.  I  was  in  his  arms 
so  closely  held  that  my  breath  was  crushed  out  of  my 
lungs.  I  wanted  to  sob.  But  how  can  you  sob  without 
breath?  I  could  only  let  him  kiss  me  on  cheeks,  and  eyes, 
and  mouth,  and  kiss  him  back  again,  with  eager  haste,  lest 
I  should  wake  up  to  find  he  had  loved  me  for  a  fleeting  in 
stant,  in  a  divine  dream. 

When  he  let  me  breathe  for  a  second,  I  gasped  that,  of 
course,  it  couldnt  be  true,  this  wonderful  thing  that  was 
happening? 

"I've  dreamed  of  you — a  hundred  times,"  I  stammered. 
"Waking  dreams — sleeping  dreams.  They've  seemed  as 
real — almost  as  real — as  this." 

"Did  I  kiss  you  like  this,  in  the  dreams?  " 

"Sometimes.    But  not  in  the  realest  ones.    It  never 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  365 

seemed  real  that  you  could  care,  in  spite  of  all — that  you'd 
forgive  me,  if  you  should  come  back " 

"Did  you  want  me  to  come?  " 

"  Oh,  'want'  isn't  the  word  to  express  it ! " 

"Even  though  you  dreaded — being  found  out ! " 

"That  didn't  count,  against  having  you  alive,  and  know 
ing  you  were  in  the  world — if  only  for  your  parents'  sake. 
I  wanted  them  to  be  happy,  more  than  I  wanted  anything 
for  myself  except  Brian's  good.  I  had  you  for  my  own, 
in  my  dreams,  while  you  were  dead,  and  I  expected  to 
lose  you  if  you  were  alive.  But " 

"You  really  expected  that?  " 

"Oh,  indeed,  yes!" 

"Although  you  knew  from  Mother  how  I'd  loved  you, 
and  searched  for  you?  " 

"You  thought  I  was  good — then." 

"I  think  so  now." 

"But  you  can't!  You  know  what  a  wicked,  wicked 
wretch  I  was!  Why,  when  you  came  into  this  room  and 
looked  at  me,  I  saw  how  you  felt !  And  your  letter " 

"Don't  you  understand,  I  was  testing  you?  If  you 
hadn't  cared  for  me,  what  you  did  might  have  been — • 
(only  'might',  mind  you,  for  what  man  can  judge  a  girl's 
heart?)  what  you  did  to  my  people  might  have  been  cruel 
and  calculating.  I  had  to  find  out  the  truth  of  things,  be 
fore  letting  myself  go.  The  letter  was  written  to  let  a 
stranger  see — if  you  turned  out  to  be  a  stranger — what  to 
expect.  But  O'Farrell  made  me  sure  in  a  minute,  that  the 
girl  here  must  be  my  Girl.  After  that,  I'd  only  to  see 
you — to  ask  if  he  told  the  truth — to  watch  your  face — 
your  precious,  beautiful  face!  I  thought  of  it  and  pic- 


366  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

tured  it.  But  I  never  thought  of  those  tears!  Forgive 
me,  my  darling,  for  making  them  come.  If  you'll  let  me 
love  you  all  your  life,  they  shall  be  the  last  I'll  ever  cause." 

I  laughed,  and  cried  a  little  more,  at  the  same  time. 
"What  a  word  from  you  to  me — 'Forgive' ! " 

"Well,  it's  more  suitable  than  from  you  to  me,  because 
there's  nothing  you  could  do  that  I  wouldn't  forgive  before 
you  did  it,  or  even  be  sure  it  was  just  the  one  right  thing  to 
do.  My  Girl — my  lost,  found  love — do  you  suppose  it 
was  of  your  own  accord  you  came  to  my  people  and  said  you 
belonged  to  me?  No.  It  was  the  Great  Power  that's  in 
us  all,  which  made  you  do  what  you  did — the  Power  they 
call  Providence.  You  understand  now  what  I  meant, 
when  I  said  that  one  question  from  me  and  an  answer  from 
you,  would  smooth  away  all  my  difficulties  at  once?  Bless 
that  O'Farrell  fellow!" 

I'd  never  thought  to  bless  Julian  O'Farrell,  but  now  I 
willingly  agreed.  Sometimes,  dimly,  I  had  divined  latent 
goodness  in  him,  as  one  divines  vague,  lovely  shapes  float 
ing  under  dark  depths  of  water.  And  he  had  said  once 
that  love  for  me  was  bringing  out  qualities  he  hadn't 
credited  himself  with  possessing.  I  had  taken  that  as  one 
of  Puck's  pleasantries!  But  I  knew  the  true  inwardness 
of  him  now,  as  I  had  learned  to  know  the  true  inward 
ness  of  Dierdre.  Julian  had  had  his  chance  to  hurt  me 
with  his  rival.  He  had  used  it  instead  to  do  me  good.  He 
had  laughed  the  other  day,  "Well,  I'll  always  be  something 
to  you  anyhow,  if  only  a  brother-in-law."  But  now,  he 
would  be  more  than  that,  even  if  he  went  out  of  my  life, 
and  I  never  saw  him  again. 

"Bless  O'Farrell.     Bless  Providence.   Bless  you.     Bless 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  367 

me.  Bless  everybody  and  everything!"  Jim  was  going 
on,  joyfully  exploding,  still  clasping  me  in  his  arms;  for 
we  clung  as  if  to  let  each  other  go  might  be  to  lose  one 
another  forever!  "How  happy  Mother  dear — and  the 
good  old  Governor  are  going  to  be!  They  absolutely 
adore  you ! " 

"Did  they  say  so?" 

"They  did.  And  almost  hustled  me  into  this  room  to 
meet  you.  I'm  glad  the  best  thing  in  my  life  has  come 
to  me  here,  among  all  the  odds  and  ends  of  my  childhood 
and  youth,  that  I  call  my  treasures!  Of  course  Mother 
planned  it  specially  that  you  should  welcome  me  here." 

"Yes,  the  darling!  But  it  seemed  to  me  a  terrible 
plan.  I  thought  you'd  hate  me  so,  I'd  spoil  the  surprise 
of  the  room  for  you." 

Those  words  were  uttered  with  the  last  breath  he  let  me 
draw  for  some  time.  But  oh,  Padre,  if  it  had  been  my  last 
on  earth,  how  well  worth  while  it  would  have  been  to  live 
just  till  that  minute,  and  no  longer!  I  am  so  happy!  I 
don't  know  how  I  am  going  to  deserve  this  forgiveness, 
this  deliverance,  this  joy ! 

"Even  if  I'd  found  a  strange  girl  looking  after  my 
parents  and  saving  their  lives  and  winning  their  love,  it 
would  have  been  pretty  difficult  to  chuck  her,"  Jim  was 
laughing.  "You,  on  this  side  of  the  door,  waiting  to  face 
the  ogre  Me,  couldn't  have  felt  much  worse  than  I  felt  on 
my  side,  not  knowing  what  I  should  see — or  do.  Darling, 
one  more  kiss  for  my  people's  sake,  one  more  for  myself, 
and  then  I  must  take  you  to  them.  It's  not  fair  to  keep 
them  waiting  any  longer.  But  no — first  I  must  put  a  ring 
on  the  Girl's  finger — as  I  hoped  to  do  long  ago.  You  re- 


368  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

member — the  ring  of  my  bet,  that  almost  made  me  lose 
you?  I  told  you  about  it,  didn't  I,  on  our  day  together, 
when  I  thought  I  should  come  back  in  two  weeks? " 

"You  told  me  you  hoped  not  to  lose  a  thing  you  want 
ed.  You  didn't  say  it  was  a  ring.  But  at  Royalieu— 
the  newspaper  correspondents'  chateau  near  Compi£gne — 
we  came  across  a  friend  of  yours,  the  one  you  made  the 
bet  with " 

"Jack  Curtis!" 

"Yes.  He  told  me  about  the  ring.  And  he  was  sure 
you  were  alive." 

' '  Good  old  Jack !  Well,  now  I'm  going  to  slip  that  magic 
ring  on  your  darling  finger — the  *  engaged*  finger." 

"But  where  is  it?" 

"The  finger?  Just  now  on  the  back  of  my  neck,  which 
it's  making  throb — like  a  star!  .  .  .  Oh,  the  ring  ? 
That's  in  the  hobby-horse  which  I  see  over  there,  as  large 
as  life.  At  least,  it's  in  him  unless,  unlike  a  leopard,  he's 
changed  his  spots." 

Jim  wouldn't  let  me  go,  but  drew  me  with  him,  our  arms 
interlaced,  to  the  tower  end  of  the  room  where  the  hobby 
horse  he  had  once  rescued  from  fire  endlessly  pranced. 
"This  used  to  be  my  bank,  when  I  was  a  little  chap,"  he 
said.  "Like  a  magpie,  I  always  hid  the  things  I  valued 
most  in  a  hole  I  made  under  the  third  smudge  to  the  left, 
on  Spot  Cash's  breast.  'Spot  Cash'  is  the  old  boy's 
name,  you  know!  When  I  won  the  bet  and  took  the  ring 
home,  I  had  a  fancy  to  keep  it  in  this  hidie  hole,  for  luck, 
till  I  could  find  the  Girl.  Mother  knew.  She  was  with 
me  at  the  time.  But  I  was  half  ashamed  of  myself  for  my 
childishness,  and  asked  her  not  to  tell — not  even  the 


EVERYMAN'S  LAND  369 

Governor.  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  that  was  why  it  occurred 
to  her  to  pack  up  my  treasures  for  France.  Maybe  she 
had  a  prophetic  soul,  and  thought,  if  I  found  the  Girl,  I 
should  want  to  lay  my  hand  on  the  ring.  Here  it  is,  safe 
and  sound." 

As  he  spoke,  he  had  somehow'contrived  to  extract  a  par 
ticularly  black  smudge  from  the  region  of  the  hobby 
horse's  heart.  It  came  out  with  a  block  of  wood  under 
neath,  and  left  a  gap  which  gave  Spot  Cash  the  effect  of 
having  suffered  an  operation.  At  the  back  of  the  cavity 
a  second  hole,  leading  downward,  had  been  burrowed  in 
the  softish  wood;  and  in  this  reposed  a  screwed-up  wad 
of  tissue  paper.  Jim  hooked  the  tiny  packet  out  with  a 
finger,  opened  the  paper  as  casually  as  though  it  enclosed  a 
pebble,  and  brought  to  the  light  (which  found  and  flashed 
to  the  depths  of  a  large  blue  diamond)  a  quaintly  fashioned 
ring  of  greenish  gold. 

"This  belonged  to  the  most  beautiful  woman  of  a  day 
that's  past,"  Jim  said.  "Now,  it's  for  the  most  beautiful 
woman  of  a  better  day  and  a  still  grander  to-morrow. 
May  I  wish  it  on  your  finger — with  the  greatest  wish  in 
the  world?" 

I  gave  him  my  hand — for  the  ring,  and  for  all  time. 

One  more  moment  in  his  arms,  and  he  opened  the  door, 
to  take  "his  Girl "  to  Father  and  Mother  Beckett. 

Somewhere  in  the  distance  Julian  O'Farrell  was  singing, 
as  he  had  sung  on  the  first  night  we  met,  Mario's  heart 
breaking  song  in  "La  Tosca" — the  song  on  the  roof,  at 
dawn.  Always  in  remembering  Julian  I  must  remember 
Mario's  love  and  sacrifice!  I  knew  that  he  meant  it 
should  be  so  with  me. 


370  EVERYMAN'S  LAND 

The  voice  was  the  voice  of  love  itself,  such  love  as  mine 
for  Jim,  as  Jim's  for  me,  which  can  never  die.  It  made  me 
sad  and  happy  at  the  same  time.  But,  as  Jim  and  I  paused 
at  the  door  to  listen,  hand  in  hand,  the  music  changed. 
Julian  began  to  sing  something  new  and  strangely  beauti 
ful — a  song  he  has  composed,  and  dedicated  to  Brian. 
I  was  sad  no  longer,  for  this  is  a  song  of  courage  and 
triumph.  He  calls  it:  "Everyman's  Land." 


THB   END 


XHZ  COUNTRY  LITE  PRESS,    GARDEN  CITY,  NXW    VO1« 


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A.  L.  Burt  ^Company's  Popular  Copyright  Fiction 


Man  with  the  Club  Foot,  The.    By  Valentine  Williams. 

Mary-'Gusta.     By  Joseph  C.  Lincoln. 

Mary  Moreland.     By  Marie  Van  Vorst. 

Mary  Regan.     By  Leroy  Scott. 

Master  Mummer,  The.    By  E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 

Memoirs  of  Sherlock  Holmes.     By  A.  Conan  Doyle. 

Men  Who  Wrought,  The.     By  Ridgwell  Cullum. 

Mischief  Maker,  The.     By  E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 

Missioner,  The.     By  E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 

Miss  Million's  Maid.     By  Berta  Ruck. 

Molly  McDonald.     By  Randall  Parrish. 

Money  Master,  The.     By  Gilbert  Parker. 

Money  Moon,  The.    By  Jeffery  Farnol. 

Mountain  Girl,  The.    By  Payne  Erskine. 

Moving  Finger,  The.     By  Natalie  Sumner  Lincoln. 

Mr.  Bingle.    By  George  Barr  McCutcheon. 

Mr.  Grex  of  Monte  Carlo.     By  E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 

Mr.  Pratt.     By  Joseph  C.  Lincoln. 

Mr.  Pratt's  Patients.     By  Joseph  C.  Lincoln. 

Mrs.  Belfame.     By  Gertrude  Atherton. 

Mrs.  Red  Pepper.     By  Grace  S.  Richmond. 

My  Lady  Caprice.     By  Jeffrey  Farnol. 

My  Lady  of  the  North.     By  Randall  Parrish. 

My  Lady  of  the  South.     By  Randall  Parrish. 

Mystery  of  the  Hasty  Arrow,  The.    By  Anna  K.  Green. 

Nameless  Man,  The.     By  Nataile  Sumner  Lincoln. 

Ne'er-Do-Well,  The.     By  Rex  Beach. 

Nest  Builders,  The.     By  Beatrice  Forbes-Robertson  Hale. 

Net,  The.     By  Rex  Beach. 

New  Clarion.    By  Will  N.  Harben. 

Night  Operator,  The.     By  Frank  L.  Packard. 

Night  Riders,  The.     By  Ridgwell  Cullum. 

Nobody.    By  Louis  Joseph  Vance. 

Okewood  of  the   Secret   Service.     By  the  Author   of  "The 

Man  with  the  Club  Foot." 
One  Way  Trail,  The.    By  Ridgwell  Cullum. 
Open,  Sesame.     By  Mrs.  Baillie  Reynolds. 
Otherwise  Phyllis.     By  Meredith  Nicholson. 
Outlaw,  The.     By  Jackson  Gregory. 


Popular  Copyright  Novels 

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A.  L.  Burt  Company's  Popular  Copyright  Fiction 


Paradise  Auction.     By  Nalbro  Hartley. 

Pardners.     By  Rex  Beach. 

Parrot  &  Co.     By  Harold  MacGrath. 

Partners  of  the  Night.     By  Leroy  Scott. 

Partners  of  the  Tide.     By  Joseph  C.  Lincoln. 

Passionate  Friends,  The.     By  H.  G.  Wells. 

Patrol  of  the  Sun  Dance  Trail,  The.     By  Ralph  Connor. 

Paul  Anthony,  Christian.     By  Hiram  W.  Hays. 

Pawns  Count,  The.     By  E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 

People's  Man,  A.     By  E.   Phillips  Oppenheim. 

Perch  of  the  Devil.     By  Gertrude  Atherton. 

Peter  Ruff  and  the  Double  Four.    By  E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 

Pidgin  Island.     By  Harold  MacGrath. 

Place  of  Honeymoon,  The.     By  Harold  MacGrath. 

Pool  of  Flame,  The.     By  Louis  Joseph  Vance. 

Postmaster,  The.     By  Joseph   C.  Lincoln. 

Prairie  Wife,  The.     By  Arthur  Stringer. 

Price  of  the  Prairie,  The.     By  Margaret  Hill  McCarter. 

Prince  of  Sinners,  A.     By  E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 

Promise,  The.     By  J.  B.  Hendryx. 

Proof  of  the  Pudding,  The.     By  Meredith  Nicholson. 


Rainbow's  End,  The.     By  Rex  Beach. 

Ranch  at  the  Wolverine,  The.     By  B.  M.  Bower. 

Ranching  for  Sylvia.     By  Harold  Bindloss. 

Ransom.     By  Arthur  Somers  Roche. 

Reason  Why,  The.     By  Elinor  Glyn. 

Reclaimers,  The.     By  Margaret  Hill  McCarter. 

Red  Mist,  The.     By  Randall  Parrish. 

Red  Pepper  Burns.     By  Grace  S.  Richmond. 

Red  Pepper's  Patients.     By  Grace  S.  Richmond. 

Rejuvenation  of  Aunt  Mary,  The.     By  Anne  Warner. 

Restless  Sex,  The.     By  Robert  W.  Chambers. 

Return  of  Dr.  Fu-Manchu,  The.     By  Sax  Rohmer. 

Return  of  Tarzan,  The.     By  Edgar  Rice  Burroughs. 

Riddle  of  Night,  The.     By  Thomas  W.  Han  shew. 

Rim  of  the  Desert,  The.     By  Ada  Woodruff  Anderson. 

Rise  of  Roscoe  Pairie,  The.     By  J.  C.  Lincoln. 

Rising  Tide,  The.     By  Margaret  Deland. 


Popular  Copyright  Novels 

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A.  L.  Burt  Company's  Popular  Copyright  Fiction 


Rocks  of  Valprc,  The.     By  Ethel  M.  Dell. 

Rogue  by  Compulsion,  A.     By  Victor  Bridges. 

Room  Number  3.     By  Anna  Katharine  Green. 

Rose  in  the  Ring,  The.     By  George  Barr  McCutcheon. 

Rose  of  Old  Harpeth,  The.     By  Maria  Thompson  Daviess. 

Round  the  Corner  in  Gay  Street.    By  Grace  S.  Richmond. 

Second  Choice.     By  Will  N.  Harben. 

Second  Violin,  The.    By  Grace  S.  Richmond. 

Secret  History.     By  C.  N.  &  A.  M.  Williamson. 

Secret  of  the  Reef,  The.     By  Harold  Bindloss. 

Seven  Darlings,  The.     By  Gouverneur  Morris. 

Shavings.     By  Joseph  C.  Lincoln. 

Shepherd  of  the  Hills,  The.     By  Harold  Bell  Wright. 

Sheriff  of  Dyke  Hole,  The.     By  Ridgwell  Cullum. 

Sherry.     By  George  Barr  McCutcheon. 

Side  of  the  Angels,  The.     By  Basil  King. 

Silver  Horde,  The.     By  Rex  Beach. 

Sin  That  Was  His,  The.     By  Frank  L.  Packard. 

Sixty-first  Second,  The.     By  Owen  Johnson. 

Soldier  of  the  Legion,  A.     By  C.  N.  &  A.  M.  Williamson. 

Son  of  His  Father,  The.     By  Ridgwell  Cullum. 

Son  of  Tarzan,  The.     By  Edgar  Rice  Burroughs. 

Source,  The.     By  Clarence  Buddmgton  Kelland. 

Speckled  Bird,  A.     By  Augusta  Evans  Wilson. 

Spirit  in  Prison,  A.     By  Robert  Hichens. 

Spirit  of  the  Border,  The.     (New  Edition.)     By  Zane  Grey. 

Spoilers,  The.     By  Rex  Beach. 

Steele  of  the  Royal  Mounted.     By  James  Oliver  Curwood. 

Still  Jim.     By  Honore  Willsie. 

Story  of  Foss  River  Ranch,  The.     By  Ridgwell  Cullum. 

Story  of  Marco,  The.     By  Eleanor  H.  Porter. 

Strange  Case  of  Cavendish,  The.     By  Randall  Parrish. 

Strawberry  Acres.     By  Grace  S.  Richmond. 

Sudden  Jim.     By  Clarence  B.  Kelland. 

Tales  of  Sherlock  Holmes.  By  A.  Conan  Doyle. 
Tarzan  of  the  Apes.  By  Edgar  R.  Burroughs. 
Tarzan  and  the  Jewels  of  Opar.  By  Edgar  Rice  Burroughs. 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


NOV 


, 




B7     1972  IS. 
b72-10 


REC'DLD    FE 


JUN201984 


BEC.CW- 


LD  21A-50m-4,'60 
(A9562slO)476B 


General  L 
University  of 

Berkele, 


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